"I'm Back." · 3:55am
The door to the empty house opens.
Leafwing stumbles in. She is clearly drunk. As she stumbles to get the door closed, she notices a glow coming from her bedroom.
Her eyes widen, and she remembers that she had left it on if she ever wanted to return...
Her head hits the floor, and she realizes she has fallen, along with the rest of her body. Giggling throatily, she uses her front hooves to crawl her way to the door...
"Hey, is this thing still here..." she mumbles as she pushes the door open with a wing. Heh, she was wings. Funny things, wings. What are they to her anyway. She couldn't fly, she was scared of heights. Besides, in the mental and physical state she's in, she wouldn't get two meters off of the ground before her intoxicated mind would force her to crash, or land, or crashland. Bah, what was the use. She'd tried so hard... but life had other plans for her. Music, friends, life. Life sucked. What's the point of trying anyways... no one loves her, no one cares. Not anymore.
"Hah... I was wri'ing a s-story, righ'... 'ell, I can kiss those dreams away..."
Leafwing laughs again. Her throat burns, so she stops. She stares at the source of the dim light, her computer. Her Applebook is only a few centimeters open, enough to let a little light through. That was her thing. Writing. What had happened?
Oh, right. Life. Life had happened.
"Le's just see wha's hap'ned to the ol' fimfiction page..."
She groggily pushes herself onto the desk chair, and flips open the computer miraculously without breaking it.
"Ah, a favorite... two favorites... lots been happenin' since I left..."
She remembers now. She remembers clearly. When she used to write.
A tear forms in her left eye. Slowly, the oils and fluids accumulate enough for gravity to exert a force to extract the droplet from her raw red eyes. The tear seems to hang in the air for a split second before splattering against her desk.
Then the dams are let loose, and a torrent of sorrow, self-pity, and pain shower from her eyes. Her cries are nothing more than murmurs and choked tears. Her table and face are soaked with tears... she never wanted this... why did she start this to begin with if she couldn't finish it... it wasn't her fault...
...no... it was her fault... it was her fault that she hadn't updated the story in months, perhaps years... she could finish it, if she put her stupid brain to it... it was time...
Slowly, eventually, the crying subsides to mere whimpers. Her mind clears.
She knows what she has to do. No more leaving the readers waiting. They need to know, just as much as she needs to write.
In a shaky, sober voice, she manages to type out her last words of the night before falling asleep at her desk.