• Published 2nd Dec 2012
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Xenophilia: Further tales. - TheQuietMan

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29: Covered up with a smile I've learned to fear.

Covered up with a smile I've learned to fear.
Chapter published 14th September 2017

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Chestnut Hill.
The outskirts of Fillydelphia, AKA The City of Sisterly Love.
Three hours past nightfall.


It’d happened again.

It was quiet, finally quiet, deathly quiet. No sounds but the slow deep breathing of his herdmates, the occasional creaking of an old house settling down for the night. The window was open to let the heat out, the summer night’s breeze pushing the partly closed curtains into the room, just for them to fall back against the frame, ready for the next breeze to put them back into motion. Somewhere out in the sea of freshly cut lawns and prized gardens, an owl hooted from the rooftops. Would a prospective mate return their call this night, or they spend yet another night in vain?

It’d happened again. She said it wouldn’t. She promised.

He could feel Petunia to his right, her chest slowly, softly rising and falling, the subtle movement rocking the bed an almost imperceptible amount with every breath. Every now and again she’d twitch, as she had for the last hour or so, her one visible ear laying flat against her skull as she spent her night of supposedly restful slumber in much the same mental place as she had spent her evening. As the curtains moved once more, moonlight played across her lilac fur, shadows forming across her neck and back, bringing out the tension in her muscles as she pulled herself into a ball, trying to make herself as small as possible, to take up as little space on the bed as she could.

She always promised, and then it happened again.

To his left, Hot Pocket shifted in her sleep, sighing as she rolled over, throwing a foreleg across his chest. Inwardly he cringed. He didn’t want her to touch him, wanted her leg gone, off of his chest. He could feel his breathing quicken, his heart beating harder as her warmth soaked through his coat and into his skin. Her foreleg tensed, her muscles contracting as if to pull him closer and, for a horrible moment, he thought she was awake, that she was trying to pull him into a hug, as if that could make it all better, as if that could make it all have never happened.

And again, and again.

She relaxed, her dark yellow foreleg going limp across him, a small grunt passing her lips as she started to snore. It wasn’t loud, not a buzzsaw kind of a snore, just a gentle rasp of her breathing. He’d found it cute, all those years ago, thought it was endearing. Now he just saw it as a relief, a respite - proof that she was actually asleep and not just laying there, thinking... whatever it was that went on in that head of hers. Finally he let out a breath that he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.

It wasn’t going to stop. It would never stop.

With a small moan she shifted again, her hoof sliding across his chest and along his ribs. He hissed, catching the breath before he could make too much noise. His dusty red coat was good at hiding the bruises, but it could never do much to mask the pain.

It wasn’t going to stop. Nothing was going to change.

His tongue moved inside his mouth, gently prodding against the inside of his cheek. The swelling had already begun, the soft, puffy flesh beginning to push against his teeth. He’d have to be careful how he ate for the next few days, he already had enough scar tissue inside his cheek from accidentally biting the slowly healing flesh over the years.

Nothing. Never.

How had it been years? When had it begun? Where had it all gone wrong? They’d been so happy, all those years ago. There were so many good times, so much love and happiness. Things had been so bright and free and open to the three of them. Petunia had gotten her horticultural degree, which had meant more money coming in. More money plus his inheritance mean that Hot Pocket could quit her job at Sloppy Joes and open up the pizzeria she’d always dreamed of. And him, he’d split his time between doing up their lovely old townhouse out in the suburbs and whipping up the most heavenly donuts and pastries that Pocket’s customers had ever tasted. Life had been good. It had been hard work, no question about it, but they’d been happy together, as a family, weathering the storms, taking the rough with the smooth.

So when had the rough started to outweigh the smooth? When had it all changed?

It was never going to change.

It had changed. The work was still hard, and the days still long - they’d known that going in, knew running your own business wasn’t going to be easy - but the smiles came less often. The soft lingering touches stopped lingering, then stopped altogether. Long days stretched into long evenings, every little problem piled onto the last, another no doubt on its way. They’d always talked about everything together, worked through everything together, always together. That changed. Pocket withdrew, pulled away, came home late, barely slept, never smiled. Then the habits started. First it was the salt licks, then the gambling, then the... whatever.

And then the foals came. Two tiny bundles of joy. A boy and a girl - Dandelion and Buttercup, oddly named considering that they weren’t Petunia’s. But they made everything alright again, they made them a family again. Oh, it was still hard, no doubt about that. Petunia quit her job to help out at the restaurant, and he took care of the kids. But Pocket, she got better, she was better. She quit her habits, got clean, she was herself again, her old self, the self that they loved.

It didn’t last.

How long is this going to last?

The distance returned, the sullen silences, the long absences. Nopony else saw it, not outside the family, but it was there, it was back, the black dog had returned, and it had brought friends. Recrimination, manipulation, accusation. And then, one day, violence.

But she swore... she swore it would never happen again, that it just wasn’t her, that she wasn’t like that... and like fools they’d believed her. They’d believed her because they loved her. They’d believed her because that just wasn’t the way she was. They believed her because she promised it wouldn’t happen again. And they believed her again and again

...and again. And it was never going to change.

And each time, every time, he’d told himself it had to be his fault, he had to be causing it somehow. She was a good mare, a loving mare, and good mares didn’t hit stallions, that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He’d tried to change, to be good for her, to do things right, but it was never enough. He wasn’t good enough, he wasn’t good looking enough, he wasn’t smart enough. He knew he wasn’t much of a stallion, but he’d tried. He tried to make himself look better, for her, to make her happy. It didn’t work. He took interest in what she liked. It didn’t help. He kept the house nice and tidy, and the kids quiet and out of her way when she got home. And then she’d get home, and it would all be good, and then something would go wrong, and then...

It was never going to change.

And all the while Petunia would hide, curl herself up and pretend it wasn’t happening, make herself into a ball that the outside world just couldn’t reach. And Pocket would laugh, call her names, call her a coward, call her useless, call her a pansy, their old foalhood nickname for her, twisted, turned in on itself, a sign of affection turned into a label of scorn.

It was never going to change.

And then it changed. She’d hit one of the kids, hit her hard. Little Buttercup didn’t know what was happening, she was only a filly for Luna’s sake. She didn’t know what all the noise was about, she’d just wanted a glass of water, and the next thing she knew she’d been bounced off of the kitchen wall, one mother screaming at her, the other just screaming, trying to burrow her way under the counter, to be anywhere but there. He’d grabbed her, grabbed her and ran upstairs, back to her brother, back to their room, back to somewhere safe.

They couldn’t live like this. They couldn’t carry on this way.

It had taken ages to calm her down, and her brother too. He had no idea what was going on but his sister was crying so he should be too. It had taken - hours maybe, he had no idea how long - to calm them, to send them off to sleep. He’d told them that everything was fine, that everything was going to be alright, that mommy Pocket wasn’t really angry, it was just a grown up thing, that they should go to sleep and everything would be OK in the morning. And they’d believed him, and they’d settled down, and eventually they’d gone to sleep.

And then she’d come for him.

This had to stop.

This had to stop. They couldn’t live like this.

It’ll never change.

But it would never change, not if he didn’t do something.

Nothing would change.

Nothing would change unless he made it change.

Not unless he made it change.

Quietly, gently, holding his breath the entire time, he lifted her hoof from his chest, wincing at the pain as he rolled himself away from her. Slowly, ever so slowly, he let her hoof rest in front of her face, a few strands of her deep red mane falling over her nose as he moved away, trying to put some distance between them. She stirred, a breath causing her loose hair to tickle her nose. He froze, breath held. A nostril twitched, twitched again. A hoof came up to push the hair away before moving to her mouth, her upper lip enveloping the edge of her toe as she started to chew on it in her sleep, a foalhood habit that had never seemed to fully go away.

He could breath again, but slowly, quietly. She slept, hoof in mouth, the same mouth that, as far as the world was concerned, butter wouldn’t melt in. He moved, bit by bit, inching down the bed, every tiny movement a small victory.

She’ll see, she’ll hear, she’ll wake.

He reached the edge of the bed, the floor, the carpet, the door. The door handle clanged like a falling pot, the hinges roared like rolling thunder, every footstep rumbling like the end of the world. He crossed the landing, moving from memory, praying to Luna, to Celestia, to the Creator herself, that he didn’t stumble in the dark. Their little home office would have what he needed. He went through drawers, pulled out papers, old forms, grabbing what he needed, leaving the rest. His bit bag was in the bottom drawer, the money he was allocated for the weekly shopping, a little petty cash for himself. He pulled a set of saddlebags from their hook on the back of the door, the old set that had seen better days but they could never bring themselves to throw away, stuffed what he needed inside.

A noise, a creak, he stilled, listened, ears on the move, his heart in his mouth. It was the house, just the house, nothing else. Just his imagination, just his nerves.

Back out of the office, across the landing, to the twins’ room. Still quiet, so quiet, needed to be quiet. They were asleep, curled up tight in their beds, Buttercup’s blanket pulled up over her head, thin cotton for a warm summer night, she huddled under it all the same. They woke easily, sleep in the corner of their eyes, they didn’t know what was going on but they kept quiet when he asked, such good kids, always good. Grab some toys, he said, some toys and some books. Yes, Buttercup, Mister Bear could come too. In the saddle bags, strap them on, still quiet, watch out in the dark, don’t worry, daddy’s here.

Were they ready, were they set? Out of the room, across the landing, down the stairs, be careful, mind your sister. Pictures on the wall watched them as they descended, step by silent step. Happy times, happy places. happy ponies, long ago. They reached the hallway, on down to the front door, just a few more lengths to go.

A noise, a noise behind them and his head turned so fast that his neck cracked, the sudden pain ignored as his heart leapt into his throat. The kitchen door was open, light spilling out from within. How had he not seen that before, how could he have been so blind?

A tap ran, water gushing, it stopped. Seconds passed, a chime, the sound of a glass being placed on the draining board. Hoofsteps, the light went out, a figure wandered out from the kitchen, in the dark, heading towards the stairs. Would she see them? She’d have to, the hallway wasn’t that big. Moonlight through a window cast silver stripes along the wallpaper, illuminating lilac fur as the mare ambled, half asleep, plodding towards him, not seeing him, not seeing anything.

And then she saw.

She saw him standing there. She saw him, wearing those old saddlebags, sides bulging to bursting. She saw him standing there, the twins at his hooves, confused, bleary eyed, their own little saddle bags strapped to their backs, Mister Bear half in, half hanging out. She saw him, seeing her, seeing him. Her eyes went wide, realisation, a gasp, a hoof reaching out just to be pulled back again. She looked from him to the top of the stairs and back again. Her mouth moved, opened.

He was frozen. Would she shout? Would she cry out? Was it all over? He reached out, motioned her to come with them, to be together, the four of them, she didn’t have to stay. She could flee, she could join them.

She looked to the top of the stairs, looked back at him.

Come, she should come. Together, they could leave together. She didn’t need to stay, she didn’t have to be Pansy any more, she could leave her behind, walk away, she could be Petunia again.

She shook her head, backed away, back into the shadows. She wouldn’t leave, she wouldn’t run. She knew what would happen. Her hoof moved to her jaw. When the morning comes, she knew what would happen, and it scared her. She was scared, so scared, but even more scared of leaving. Pocket was all she had, all she needed. She’d been told so many times, made to see so many times, that’s why she’d stay, why she’d always stay.

One of the foals whimpered, they didn’t understand what was going on. It was dark, and really late, they wanted to be back in their beds, cosy, safe, normal.

Petunia backed away, further into the shadows, into a corner, back into the slice of darkness between the strands of moonlight. She didn’t cry out, didn’t call, or make a fuss. She wasn’t there, they couldn’t see her, this wasn’t happening, she wasn’t there.

By the time she came back out of the shadows, neither was he.

~~~~~~~~~

West Fillydelphia
Two hours before dawn.

He checked the horndrawn map for the umpteenth time, turning it in his hooves to orient the the paper against the direction of the street sign beside him. Going over the directions again in his head, he folded the old piece of paper and tucked it back into his saddlebags. At the time, he hadn’t known why Sakura had given him the map all those months ago, or why she’d be so insistent he kept it, ‘just in case’, but kept it he had, tucked away in the back of his keepsakes. He didn’t know why he’d kept it hidden, or why he’d never mentioned it to another soul, or what had pulled him to it tonight, but now it was all he had, so he followed it.

They’d walked south-ish for what felt like hours, through neighbourhood after neighbourhood. Affluence had died away with each city block, the townhouses smaller, the stoneworks giving way to brick, then to wood. Front gardens became less ornate, more functional.

What have you done?

They walked on, through the dark, from streetlight to streetlight. Wherever the street lights didn’t reach, the moon lit their way. Whenever he paused to check the map, tuning so the moon was over his shoulder so better to illuminate the hastily scribbled words, the moon seemed to glow that much brighter, much brighter than he remembered it being in years, much fuller in form than it should have any business being this far into its cycle.

What have you done?

His mind raced, a thousand thoughts a minute, all too loud. His thoughts piled up, bubbled and burned, shouting for his attention. But they all boiled down to just one thing...

What have you done?

He walked, hoof after hoof. The kids had tired out long ago, their little legs worn out from the walking. They lay now, across his back, joined at the forehooves, holding onto each other for stability, drifting in and out of sleep.

It’s not too late to go back. You can make this right.

No, he had to go on. Had to keep moving forward.

You should go back. You’ll never make it alone.

No, he had to push on, he had to do it for the kids.

He turned a corner, he must be close, it must be right here.

Empty lots, dilapidated houses. The few that were still standing looked mostly deserted, the living outweighed by the dead. A few wispy pre-dawn clouds rolled over the moon, increasing the gloom all around, the shadows lengthening their reach, expanding their grasp towards him.

What if there was nothing there? What if his destination was nothing but an empty lot?

There’s nothing for you there.

What would he do then? Where would he go, what would he do?

There, that’s the one. Luna, please, let this be the one.

The numbers matched, he read them twice to be sure. A big house, old, the architecture reminding him of the kind of house he’d only ever seen before on a trip to Neigh Orleans. Three floors, balconies ringing the upper two floors, an honest to goodness veranda around the ground floor. It had definitely seen better days, faded pink paint peeling from its walls, patches of barely newer paint marking repairs of various vintages dotted here and there.

The clouds moved on, the moon throwing its light all around him once more. A wash of silver rolled over the house, illuminating the roof, picking out the colours of the huge rainbow painted there, the garish colours bringing life to the otherwise dull surroundings.

This was it, this was the place.

He reached out for the gate, a simple white wooden construction bridging the gap between a low picket fence. The fence itself was faded, weather worn, but the gate was freshly painted, the hinges well oiled. With just a touch, the gate swung open, silent in its motion, opening wide to invite him on in. He stepped inside, one hoof on the path, followed by a second. Kids’ toys littered the freshly cut lawn, shallow flowerbeds lined the path. Petals of red and yellow and blue waved him onwards, up towards the porch.

But what if he was wrong? He’d only heard of this place through a friend. What if she had been wrong? What if there was no help for him here? Even if there was, he had nothing he could offer in return. He had no real skills, no real education or training outside of his rather specialised talent. All he had was his body, and he’d let himself go these last few years. He had nothing, he was worth nothing.

Nothing.

But the kids, he had to step up, he had to do it for the kids. He couldn’t go back now, couldn’t tuck his tail between his legs and crawl on back.

He lifted a hoof, hesitated, then steeled himself as he rapped his toe against the door.

Nothing .

Nothing.

The noise had woken Dandelion, who wiggled on his back, wanting to be let down. The motion meant that Buttercup was awake as well, and if Dandy was getting down she wanted down as well.

His kids by his side, he rapped again.

There’s nothing for you here.

He waited, pulling the map from his saddlebags, checking it again. There was noise from within. A light went on, the sound of hooves on stairs. Through the smoked glass by the side of the door he could see movement. Another light came on, closer to the door, the window allowing light out onto the porchway. Voices drifted from the other side of the wood.

They’re not going to help you.

The door opened, light spilling out from within, hurting his eyes. He recoiled, squinting, a hoof coming up to shield him from the light. When he opened them again, he looked up to find the largest stallion he’d ever seen standing in the doorway, an earth pony of epic proportions. Light streamed past him, leaving a glow around the edges of his gleaming white coat. But easily the most striking thing about him was his mane, a six coloured rainbow mane falling around his withers in majestic waves, framing his face and making his pale blue eyes pop with vibrancy.

He’ll send you away.

Words failed him. Lips moved but no words came. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? What came next? He didn’t know.

Behind the large earth pony, two other stallions appeared. Both looked like they were scared stiff and expecting trouble, one held a rolling pin between his forehooves as the other peeked out from behind his marginally more courageous companion, nerves making his hair curlers bounce around within his mane.

He recognised that look, disguised fear, barely contained terror, he’d seen it in the mirror often enough. He wanted to speak, to explain, to ask, but he couldn’t. Words, they still failed him, all he could do was hold out his scrappy little map, hope that it meant something to whoever this stallion was.

It won’t. He’ll send you away, and then where will you be?

Large forehooves took it, turned it so it could be read. Eyes scanned the scrawled hornwriting, the crude picture of a house with a rainbow roof, the well practised representation of cherry blossoms down in the bottom left hoof corner, recognition flared across those baby blues. Those same eyes turned to him, rainbow mane swaying as he leant forward, looking him over, eyes that seemed to lock onto his jaw, his cheek, his own eye.

He looked down, ashamed, ponies shouldn’t have to look at him like this, he shouldn’t have let it come to this. Beside him. Little Buttercup started to cry, it’s all been too much for her, ruined her nightly routine, pulled her away from her bed.

The stallion looked down, taking in the filly, her brother at her side. Holding out a hoof he ushered them inside, ushered them all inside, into the house. More ponies were there, in doorways, coming down the stairs, coming to see what was going on. At the bottom of the stairs stood a young earth pony mare, not long out of her teens. She was obviously the large stallion’s daughter, with a coat of the same sky blue as his eyes and an identical rainbow coloured mane, though pulled back into a tightly knotted prench braid that ran all the way down the long length of her neck. A young teenage pegasus, a filly of no more than eleven or twelve, peeked out from behind her, a unicorn colt of about the same age hovered part-way up the stairs behind them both.

The rainbow maned mare came forward, cooing to Buttercup, asking if she’s ok, if she’s hungry, if she needed to visit the little filly’s room? The young stallion with the mane curlers, himself not that far into his twenties surely, declared that what they needed was breakfast, ushering the other fillies and colts that started appearing from nowhere off towards what must be the kitchen, fielding requests for pancakes and waffles as he went. The older stallion, the one with the rolling pin, asked Dandy if he wanted to help in the kitchen. The twins looked up at their father, their faces lighting up when he nodded that it was okay to go help out

Soon they were all gone, all the stallions and fillies and colts and young mares, and still his words hadn’t come. His mouth, his throat, his lips, all still failed him, his hind legs soon following, sitting him down on the old carpet with more of a thump than he intended. The rainbow maned stallion was there, talking to him, the words only half sinking in. He felt a foreleg as it wrapped around his withers, body warmth against his coat. Words, softly spoken, floated past his ears, only a few made it into his brain, the rest were just too much for him right now. The words told him that this was a safe place, a place of friends, that he could stay as long as he liked, that he was very brave, that there are others like him here, that they’d like to meet him, but that he wouldn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, that it’s all up to him, but no matter what they were there for him.

His own words still didn’t come, but the tears did. He’d kept them inside for so long, deep inside, where no other pony could ever see them. But now they came out, pushing past his barriers like a flood. He let them come, let them escape, let them mix with the numbness that swept over him.

We’re out.

They were out, they were... He wasn’t sure what they were, beyond today. He didn’t know where they were going, or how they’d survive, or what would come next. But that was alright, that was okay. Because, for the first time in years, things could finally start to change for the better.

~~~~~~~~~

Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria, lived three very best friends. Their names were Hot Pocket, Crispy Creame, and Petunia Flourish. They were the bestest freinds that any friends could ever be and when they grew up they were going to get married and own a big fancy restaurant together. Pocket would cook the biggest and best and tastiest meals and Crispy would do the fanciest, most yummiest desserts and Pansy would grow pretty flowers that would hang from baskets all around the walls and in vases on all of the tables and planters under all the windows. Ponies would come from all over Equestria to eat there and even the princess herself would fly over from her big fancy castle just to eat Crispy’s cakes and tell the rest of the world that his cakes were totally the best. And then, when they were even older still, they’d go home to their big fancy house where they would have lots of colts and fillies of their own and live happily ever after for ever and ever. The End.

Author's Note:

Someone once told me that stories about ponies are stories about people. Can’t remember who it was, but it’s true.

And yes, that’s XFT’s Rainbow’s real father and sister. Say hello, you’ll be meeting them again later on.

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