//------------------------------// // 5. Juice Boxes & Ghosts // Story: The Allfathers Station (2nd Person) // by Speedway King //------------------------------// Your back feels as though it’s on fire, the lapse between doses rearing its ugly head. As you make your hurried trek for the Apartment you try to hold back your usual stream of therapeutic cussing to protect Apple Bloom’s innocent ears. The olive Filly keeps a worried eye on you and speaks through a mouthful of plastic grocery bags. “Are ya sure yer alright, Todd?” She asks in a skeptical tone. “Where’s yer medication?” Your back pain is too intense for you respond with more than an exasperated mumble, yet you soldier on through the cold, desperate to get away from the black figure hiding behind the heavy snowfall. You feel like a wounded animal being watched by lone vulture, waiting for you to fall so it can strip the meat from your tired bones. Every step sends a cruel vibration through your spine that multiplies tenfold with exposure to the cold. The sight of Redford Street Arms poking through the fog gives you a second wind of willpower that drives you forward to your treasure of relief with the invisible stalker acting like a spur of fear to the barrel. Apple Bloom sticks close, looking like she’s ready to catch you in case you fall despite your much larger frame. “C’mon Todd, we’re almost there, jus’ put one hoof in front of th’ other!” Her encouragement is a small comfort, letting some of the pain free from your back as you hobble closer to the entrance. The heated entrance greets you from behind the locked door in combination with the smell of nicotine, making you wish you could reach your own pack without feeling like you broke your brittle spine. Apple Bloom runs to the elevator and jumps up to slap the call button with her tiny hoof, shuffling in place with the same hurried air you felt this morning. The doors creak open and a man you hoped to never see again emerges from the box like a creeping shadow from a child’s nightmare. “Why Mister Smith, back so soon?” Apple Bloom backs away as Joseph exits the elevator, yet gives him a cheery smile, oblivious to your animosity towards him. “And who is this now?” The sharply dressed gentleman asks while leaning over to scratch her chin. “I wasn’t aware you were in the company of a Pony.” You find it strange how easily Joseph takes to the alien equine in the lobby. It almost seems as if he’s dealt with creatures like this before, making you even more nervous. “Ah’m Apple Bloom, are ya one a Todd’s friends?” The Filly asks innocently, clearly enjoying the strange man’s fingers digging into her chin. “I’m not sure, Apple Bloom,” Joseph replies whilst giving you an almost sinister looking grin. “Are we, Mister Smith?” You can only grunt in pain, wishing you could run away with Apple Bloom in your arms to escape the enigmatic stalker. His smile fades, when he notices your physical discomfort. “Ah, you look unwell, Mister Smith” You cringe as he states the obvious, knowing full well that he’s probably enjoying this. “Todd needs his medicine cuz’ he got a bad back.” Apple Bloom informs the unwelcome stranger with the worried look returning to her face. “Oh my… Then why is he carrying all those groceries?” Joseph asks the Filly with a stern look before walking over to you to lighten your load. “You should be more mindful of your Father’s ailments before letting him exert himself.” The way he says “Father” creates an uncomfortable tightness in your chest, one part of it caused by worry and another part fuelled by anger. He balances one of the grocery bags on Apple Bloom’s back and enters the elevator with your other two in hand, the little Pony following close behind. “Come Mister Smith, we shouldn’t be standing here chatting while you fall apart on us. What is your floor?” Before you can grunt out another inaudible response, Apple Bloom perks up with the answer. “It’s number nine,” She tells him, eager to leave a good impression “Room 921!” You drive yourself into the elevator as Mister Marshall presses the ninth floor button. When the doors close, you feel as though you are locked in a cage with the stranger acting as a prowling Tiger. The single lamp above reflects off of his intricate solar pin and into your eye, making your discomfort slowly turn to petty hatred. Between the rushes of pain down your spine you reflect on how he referred to you as Apple Bloom’s Father. You consider asking him about it, but right now all you really want is your Vicodin and your dirty tumbler, preferably filled with alcohol. The elevator comes to halt and the three of you exit with Apple Bloom, once again, looking nauseated. Joseph supports you with an arm over your shoulders, adding chills to the screaming pain that runs down your back. You force your way inside of the apartment and make a beeline to the couch with the best of your crippled ability. The orange pill bottle and the half-full Scotch upon the coffee table are like a beacon of hope in your eyes. Collapsing on the couch and not bothering to count your meds, you take the bottle to your mouth and down as many pills as you can before slugging back several heavy gulps of the amber liquid straight from the source. The pain melts away almost instantaneously along with any other feelings you might have had. All you can experience is a comforting numbness that separates you from the horrors of the real world. Joseph looks absolutely disgusted at the sight of your hedonistic suicide trip while Apple Bloom takes the groceries to the kitchen, completely unaware of the damage you’re doing to yourself. He looks about the Apartment to drink in the squalor before dropping your bags in the entrance and giving the Olive Filly one last, depressed look. “This isn’t the life we wanted for you, little Apple Bloom…” He whispers before leaving, muttering to himself behind the now-closed door. As shadows clutch your vision, you can see Apple Bloom walk into view with her new pack of juice boxes, struggling to unwrap it from its plastic prison before turning her attention to you. “Todd? Ya’ll don’t look so good…” This is the last thing you hear before fading into your usual Sunday coma. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The room is a sterile white, lit by nothing but a single, wide window that clearly presents the rows of apple trees that line the hill running over the horizon. The late afternoon sun beams through the window and directly into your eyes, making you squint away to the only furniture that accentuates the center of the void-like chamber. Two simple wooden chairs, sturdy as they are humble, face each other from a few feet; one of them is already occupied. A painfully slender woman, dressed in a basic sundress looks upon you with a smile upon her faded lips. Her pale skin is contrasted by her medium-length, dark brown hair with soft blue eyes shining from underneath a row of bangs. She motions to the empty chair in front of her in a silent request for your company. You comply without hesitation, as if this is something completely normal you have done every day of your life. The chair creaks under your body weight, yet remains strong, letting you stare into the ghostly woman’s eyes. “Is this what you wanted?” She asks with a whispered rasp behind her calming, motherly voice. “I don’t know, maybe…” You reply, not quite sure what she means by ‘what you wanted’. You glance out the wide window, ignoring the painful sun in your eyes and scan the rows of apple trees, each one heavily laden with the ripened fruit. A trio of figures can now be seen on the crest of the hill, their features eclipsed by the heavy sunset behind them. You’re not quite sure, but they almost look like strange caricatures of Horses. “She has a family waiting for her, you know,” The spirit states with sadness in her voice, looking out the window along with you to the figures on the hill. “A family that doesn’t even know she’s gone.” “I know…” You do not understand what you are saying; everything feels like it is being forced out of your mouth regardless of what you really think. You both look towards each other, locking eyes once again in blissful silence. You want to rise from your chair and hold the wisp in your arms, to feel the fabric of her simple sundress in your hands and her dark hair against your face. You want to comfort this woman as much as you want her to comfort you, yet you remain seated, a pressure on your chest keeping you locked in place. “I only hope that your Daughter will be worth the pain.” The Woman’s words confuse you and create a whirling void of questions, each one with a confusion-faded answer that just barely escapes you. What does she mean by Daughter? What does she mean by pain? Why does this woman seem so familiar, yet so foreign? You feel as though your skull is going to split and release your liquefied brain on the floor like a fallen egg. The sunset behind the window grows brighter and brighter, rapidly expanding towards your position. The hanging apples begin to turn from a rosy red to a sinister black, burnt by the wretched yet painless heat. The leaves follow suit, bursting into flames and alighting the orchard in a cruel blaze. The Horses fade away in the purging fire, barely moving as they waste away to cinders. The sight horrifies you, making you wish you could turn away, but the pressure on your chest keeps you locked in place, forcing you to watch the horrifying scene. Soon, the expanding sun is all you can see, bathing the room in a rippling white fog, hiding the ghost from view. You scream for her to return, wanting to take her away from this yet you remain sitting calmly, as if you were sitting on a park bench, waiting for a train. A horrible, metallic screeching noise is the last thing to pervade your ears before everything cuts to black. Harsh, angry black… ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ An electronic ringing awakens you from your strange dream to a cacophony of gunfire, explosions and screams emitting from the television set. The lucid haze in your head keeps you from really getting a feel for your surroundings, only allowing you to lie on the couch in a state of half-death. The electronic ring buzzes in your ears again, amplifying your monstrous headache. You open one eye to find Apple Bloom sitting on your chest with a juice box held in her forelegs, casually slurping away while an old hard-boiled action cop film loudly resounds from the television. The ring assaults your ears once more before the answering machine kicks in with your own recorded response to the mystery caller: “Hi, you’ve reached Todd Smith. I can’t get to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” The machine beeps once again and a comfortably familiar voice comes through the tinny speaker: “Hey Todd, it’s Bram. Look, I know it’s Sunday evening and you’re probably plastered to hell, but Booker can’t make it to the lanes tonight cuz’ he’s still out of town. Gimmie a call back when you get this, bro. *click*” The message is more or less a white noise mingling with the violence from the television. Apple Bloom gives you a plain look from her perch before turning her attention to the bag of chips beside her. “Mornin’ sleepyhead.” The Filly greets you between crunches of her salty snack. “Ah figured Ah’d help mahself to th’ food, seein’ as how you was sleepin’ an’ all.” You glance at the almost empty Scotch bottle that sits beside the couch alongside your overturned pills before returning to Apple Bloom once more. “Well… good to see you can help yourself then…” you groan whilst trying to rise, forcing the little pony off of your chest and to the floor. She looks up at you with hope in her large, gamboge eyes as you slowly climb to your feet. “So since yer awake, can we finally do somethin’ again?” You stretch and look out the window to find that night has fallen upon the city, the lightly falling snow reflecting off of the distant skyscraper lights like fragile gold. You stumble to the answering machine with a tired gait and give a listen to Bram’s message. While it repeats itself, you look to the kitchen to find the grocery bags have been piled on the floor and rummaged through, scattering various plastic wrappers and discarded packaging. Apple Bloom walks up beside you and gives you a crumb-laden grin, hopeful for your approval of her sub-par storage methods. As the message finishes playing you smile back at the innocent Filly. “So Apple Bloom, what do you know about bowling?”