What Mother?

”What are YOU going to do about it?”

That is my remark to her, it is the remark I give the few that talk back to me.
Everypony that I say this to always back down, they cower actually and allowed me to continue my bulling to my heart’s content, but not this time.

At first it seems as though Babs is going to back down, but no. She talks and her words hurt more than she can possibly imagine.

“Tell your mother’s about you’re bad attitudes”

Thinking about it, I want to buck her straight in the face.

I don’t do it.

I back away from her.

I wish I hadn’t.

I fall from the train station platform. The short distance from it to the puddle of mud underneath is brief, but it is more than enough to remind me about the fact that there is no pony there to grab me and no pony to pick me up. No pony to scold Babs for making me trip and no pony to tell me that it is my own fault for being so mean towards her.

No pony.

I don’t move after I land in the mud, I just lay there and let the wet mud soak into my mane and tail.

I don’t care.

There is a pig in the puddle of mud. It runs away with my tiara made of silver.

I don’t care.

It means nothing to me; it is just a piece of expensive jewelry with one purpose. To remind others that I am better than them and to remind myself about how alone I am.

Silver Spoon nudges me and asks if I am okay.

I don’t answer.

I don’t have to. She knows why I am so quiet. She knows why it hurts inside.

Maybe I’m not completely alone.

But she is only a friend, not a parent.

She walks me home.

Home…

She walks me back to the place where I live. The big villa filled with expensive furniture, decorations and other things that only have one purpose, to remind visitors about how little they have compared to my father.

How little they have…

Silver Spoon asks if I want company, if I want to talk.

I don’t answer.

I just walk inside and close the door behind me.

I don’t even say goodbye. Or thank you…

I wish I had.

Then the house wouldn’t feel so empty. Daddy isn’t home and even when he is it still feels empty. He never truly came home after… what happened to Mommy.

I take a shower to get all the mud and pig excrement out of my mane, tail and coat. The foul stinking mixture is overpowered by the warm water and is chased down the drain. Some smell still remains, but with the help of some shampoo it is quickly killed off.

It is the same shampoo that Daddy has always bought. Its apricot scent makes me remember how Daddy used to bathe me when I was younger. He would play with me, tell me a story while I soaked in the tub, rub the shampoo into my hair, rinse it out with water and then once all that was done, then he would call for Mommy and she would come and lift me out of the tub with the gentle embrace of her magic before drying me with a silky soft towel.

Not anymore.

I dry myself, just like I have done for two years now. I walk to my room and jump onto the bed. I’m only half-dry, but I don’t care. I want to sleep. I want to dream about the past. The happy days.

I don’t.

I can’t sleep.

The sentence from earlier still hangs in my thoughts.

“Tell your mother’s about you’re bad attitudes”

If only she could.

I wouldn’t mind being scolded as long as I could hear Mommy’s voice again.

I press my face into my pillow, hiding it from the room filled with teddy bears and allowing the pillow to drink freely of my tears.

“Why did you have to die Mommy?”

I cry the question into the pillow, but I receive no answer.

I never do.

I have thought about asking Daddy the same question, but I am afraid to. Not because I suspect him to become angry, but because I am afraid of how sad it will make him.

I often wake when he comes home late from work. Daddy always comes home late because of his job. I know that he works late because it helps him forget. Just like bulling helps me.

He will take long, slow and exhausted steps towards the couch. He sleeps there; he hasn’t slept in his bed since Mommy passed.

Most of the time he falls asleep instantly, but now and then he will cry instead. I will stand in the doorway and listen to him.

He cries just like I do.

I want to go to him when he cries and tell him that everything will be alright, to tell him that he shouldn’t be sad. But how can I when I don’t even believe it myself? How am I supposed to cheer up my Daddy with words that I feel are hollow and dead?

I can hear the front door opening. Its daddy, I easily recognize the sound of his briefcase dropping to the floor and the sound of his unhappy sighs.

I sit upright on my bed, hoping that maybe daddy will come into my room and ask me how my day has been.

I want to tell him about what Babs had done to me.

I want him to ask why she did what she did.

I want to tell him how mean I’ve been to everyone.

I want him to scold me and then comfort me afterwards.

I know he won’t, but I wish he would.

Daddy collapses on the couch like he always does. He falls asleep rather than crying today.

I lie back down and look up at the ornate cloth of my canopy bed. I rub my eyes; they hurt a little from all the crying.

I’m tired now.

But I can’t sleep.

I can’t.

I won’t.

I want to talk!

I want to talk to daddy!

I jump out of my bed and run. My bedroom door slams open as i throw myself asainst it.

Tears pour from my eyes again as I run down the hallway leading to the living room where Daddy is. I can hear that he is awake; the slamming of my door woke him.

“Daddy!” I scream for him as I run as fast as I can.

“Tiara!” Daddy shouts my name as he hears my scream for him; I hear deep worry in his voice. I am not even halfway down the hallway when I see daddy turning the corner. The look in his eyes match the sound of his voice.

“Daddy!” I scream his name again. It gets harder to see as tears continue to pour from my eyes, but that does not matter since the blurry sight of him is quickly replaced by the touch of him.

I wrap my forelegs around his waist as best as I can and bury my face in his chest.

His suit drinks my tears.

Daddy moves his forelegs around me and hugs me tight. He asks what is wrong, why I’m crying.

I want to answer.

I can’t.

I can’t stop crying.

I want to stop.

Or do I?

Daddy hugs me tighter. It makes me feel safe. He tells me that everything is going to be okay. He tells me to cry, to let it all out.

I do. I cry harder than I ever have, yet through my sobs I manage to ask the question I have asked my pillow so many times.

“Why did mommy have to die?”

I feel a jolt of surprise run through daddy as I finish my question. He didn’t expect me to ask this. I’m hoping for an answer I know he can’t give and he doesn’t.

He begins to cry.

He hugs me tighter and I can feel his tears as they let go of his chin and drop down onto my hair.

His voice has lost its usual arrogant and superior tone now that he is crying.

It hurts to hear him cry. Not in my ears, but in my heart. He has never cried like this before, not even when Mommy passed away.

“I don’t know honey” sobs Daddy. His tears now flow faster, soaking my mane even more; my tears begin to flow at the same speed as his.

We sit in the embrace of each other.

Crying together.

Hurting together.

Though our pained cries we occasionally manage to speak to each other.

I tell Daddy not to be sad, not to cry and beg him not to let go of me.

Daddy says the same to me and promises over and over again that he will never let go of me and that he will always be here for me.

We sit in the hallway for some time. I don’t know how long and that doesn’t matter anyway.

Daddy doesn’t cry anymore and neither do I, both of us have run out of tears.

“I am a horrible father, aren’t I?” asks Daddy in a whisper.

I answer without vitality. Crying has robbed me of all my strength.

“No… you are just a little broken… like me…”

Daddy lets out a quick and slightly sad chuckle. He moves his right foreleg in under me so he can carry me.

“Come now my little princess, let’s get you tugged in”

I don’t answer, I’m too tired.

Daddy carries me to my room and sets me down gently on the soft sheets and rests my head in the middle of my big pillow. He pulls up my blanket and tugs it in underneath me, just like he used to do.

I use my remaining strength to look at daddy and ask him another question.

“Daddy… will you sing me my lullaby? Just like you and mommy used to?”

Daddy strokes my mane softly as he answers me. “Of course I will my little princess. Of course I will.”

He clears his throat quietly before he starts to sing the lullaby he and mommy used to sing for me.

Lullay little princess, lay you sleepy head
Mommy and Daddy will sing as you enjoy the feel of your bed
Let Luna carry you softly on wings made of dreams
Go and have fun in a world where your sweetest thought gleams.

We will be here when you wake.
None of us will go away and cause you heartache.
Sleep until morning comes and we wake you with tender care
Readying you for a day of fun, where you need not shed a tear.
*

A lone tear runs down Daddy’s cheek as he finishes the lullaby.

“Thank you Daddy…I love you…” I speak the word for the first time in two years and it makes me feel warm inside.

Daddy gives me a goodnights kiss on my forehead. “I love you too my little princess. Sleep tight and dream sweet dreams”

I do not reply.

I have fallen asleep.

I have so much I want to say to Daddy.

I will do it tomorrow.

I will tell him how mean I have been to the other at school.

I will go to Silver Spoons house and apologize for today and tell her that she is my best friend and that she is very dear to me.

I will apologize to Sweetie Belle, Applebloom and Scootaloo.

I will send a letter to Babs in which I apologize.

But before all of that, I just want to sleep.

To dream.

To tell my mother about my bad attitude.

The end?

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Comments ( 44 )

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Diamond Sparkle

Diamond Sparkle #1 · Jan 27th, 2013 · 1 · ·

Poor little Diamond Tiara.

ezio dementay

ezio dementay #2 · Jan 27th, 2013 · 1 · ·

soo good! the feels! i need a hug!

BenRG

BenRG #3 · Jan 27th, 2013 · · ·

I've often wondered why Diamond Tiara is what she is. This is as much an explanation as any; children struck by great grief can become troublesome and destructive, especially if they never allow themselves (or are not allowed by social convention) to express that grief.

Comment posted by Toraka deleted Jan 30th, 2013