//------------------------------// // Itinerary // Story: Appledashery Vol. Two // by Just Essay //------------------------------// The next morning, Applejack awoke slowly, and she couldn't tell the gray shadows apart. She crawled out of bed. She crawled everywhere. In a slow lurch, she shuffled across the creaking floorboards of her family home's second floor. A flavorless wind blew through the open windows, causing drapes and bedsheets to sway liquidly. On heavy hooves, the teenager lingered at a doorframe, staring inside the bedroom with a deadpan gaze. A neatly-made bed lingered in the hazy morning light. Half-worn clothes lay limply in a hamper in the corner. A vanity stretched before a mirror, complete with humble perfume bottles and family photographs. Her father's galloshes rested neatly beside the bed, ready to be worn by nopony. Her mother's shawl hung off a rocking chair, the tassels fluttering in a phantom fashion. Applejack said nothing. She strolled down the stairs, passing the same familiar faces—half of which she'd never listen to again. Once at the bottom floor, she strolled through the dining room table. Five places were set, along with an infant's stool. The room felt unnecessarily cramped, but as soon as Applejack pondered removing the dining room table—she winced. The shudder brought her into the kitchen—which was just as barren. She peered into the refrigerator, but most of the food had been spoiled with neglect. There was a pain in Applejack's chest, but it wasn't hunger. The mare's ears twitched. She brushed a hoof past her pigtails and rubbed her lobes. Resting still, she heard nothing but silence. Even the songbirds were giving the morning a rest. Sighing, Applejack turned around and shuffled back up the stairs. Apple Bloom squirmed and cooed from where she lay in her crib. Her eyes were the brightest things in the house. Her tuft of mane hair was like a miniature torch. A green shape huddled beside the infant's bed. Granny Smith didn't look neither awake nor asleep. The occasional shudder suggested a subdued limbo. Nevertheless, she remained there... anchored to the infant's bedside. Applejack stared from the doorframe, and as each minute wore on, a lump in her throat grew deeper and deeper. She opened her muzzle to say something... but failed. With ears drooping, she pivoted away from the dimly-lit nursery and marched limply towards the opposite side of the house. A meager trickle of cold-cold water was all the family shower could offer. Applejack didn't protest. She huddled there, her body hunched forward against the porcelain frame of the basin. The sheer cold of the liquid brought a sharp gasp to her lungs—but her heartrate remained the same thick lurch. She stared down at the swirling water of the drain. Moisture cascaded down her freckles, highlighting the otherwise unremarkable lines in her emotionless expression. She thought of something... then she thought of something else. Her body sagged even more. Somehow, the water didn't feel ice cold enough. Applejack sat in a chair beside her bed. She peered into a mirror, calmly and fastidiously tying her still-damp mane into twin pigtails. Her nostrils flared. One eyebrow raised... then lowered. Nothing changed—certainly not the melancholic face before her. The mare was done with her grooming. She finished far sooner than she had hoped. The morning had barely passed. There was still an eternity to extinguish. Slowly, Applejack gazed her head towards her left. She peered out a window at a world that was brightening beneath lazy clouds. The fields of Sweet Apple Acres stretched from hill-to-hill. One third of the fields glistened with red fruit. The majority of the groves—however—were a blank and unenthusiastic emerald... completely devoid of apples. Applejack blinked. Her brow furrowed as she craned her neck. Closer to the barn—the newer barn—she once again saw the same gathered wagons that she had spotted after the funeral the previous day. They sat lonesomely beneath a tarp, gathering dust and leaves. Unattended. Applejack bit her lip. Soon—with a curious jolt of energy—she stood up. Dead grass and loose leaves crunched under the teenager's hooves as she approached the wagons. Applejack leaned in close, grasping the edge of the tarp and lifting. She spotted several baskets of fruit lying underneath. There was no telling just how many days the fruit had been resting under the cover. Applejack had lost so much track of time. She wasn't the only one. Reaching in, the mare grasped a few pieces of fruit at random and examined them. She used every trick in her familial arsenal: smelling the peels, squeezing the texture, and tapping the stems. From as well as she could tell, the fruit were still ripe. She couldn't tell if it was a miracle or not. Applejack placed the fruit back in, lowered the tarp, and turned around. She squinted through the sunlight. There was still an entire third of Sweet Apple Acres with trees unbucked. The mare bit her bottom lip. She leaned on one set of legs... then the other. At last—with pigtails twirling—she spun about and trotted briskly into the farmhouse. Applejack ran her orange hoof across a calendar hanging in the kitchen. Her green eyes narrowed on one week in particular. There was a spot four days away that was splattered with red ink... and eerily etched with her father's hoofwriting: "HARVEST DEADLINE – MEET WITH FILTHY RICH" Applejack exhaled. She glanced out at the field of unbucked trees... then back at the calendar once more. At last, with a determined breath, she exited the building and made her way for the old barn positioned far across the property.