Square and white, square and white, square and white.
I tried not to think too much about the job I was actually doing. Because if I did, it would drive me crazy. Rows and rows of tiny sugar cubes passed by under my ever-watchful gaze. I could say that my gaze was trained and that I would be an expert on the matter of checking sugar cubes, but truth is, every idiot could do this job. The job of making sure that every sugar cube was perfect.
It fitted right with the slogan. Not ‘square and white,’ I mean, but our real company’s slogan: ‘Sweet’s sugar cubes: pure, square perfection.’ And who was the pony who made sure that they would all be perfect? You guessed it, me, Sweet Tooth.
I looked at my wristwatch. Thankful as I was for having it, I could figure out how long I still had to do this eye-numbing work. I could only wish it would count down as well, so the hours would flow away, instead of pile up on each other.
The last of the sugar cubes came into sight. They too, were square and white—pure perfection. I wasn’t going to wait for the things to reach the boxing part of the assembly line; that was someone else’s job. Also, I wasn’t in the mood for talking to my fellow colleague. Each time exactly one hundred and ninety-eight sugar cubes were created using the sugar press which I know oh-so well, they would be boxed by another pony standing a few meters from me. Six by eleven by three. I could wait for a couple of seconds for the pony to fill the box up using a different machine and exchange a few words, but as I said, I was not in the mood.
Back to work then. I turned my head to the left to see an enormous pile of sugar slowly drifting towards me on the conveyor belt. Time to spring into action. I divided the pile into smaller piles, using my gloved hooves and my expert’s eyes to measure the right size. Then, I put some distance between the little piles and let them continue their way to my instrument of sugar torture. I came up with that beautiful, beautiful name for my machine a couple of days ago; on my first day, in fact. That day, I had nourished the hope that this job would be exciting and that it would be a nice opportunity to do something useful with my time. Both wrong. The work soon proved to be the exact opposite of that, revealing not hope, but my worst case scenario. After a couple of days I stopped naming things in a fun and creative way, and just did my job. My mind was completely numbed, perfect for the job. As perfect and square and white as my brother’s sugar cubes.
The small pile had reached my machine. It disappeared through the hole and into the mold. I scooted behind my machine, pushed the buttons, and pulled the lever down. With a hiss like a dangerous snake, the press molded the sugar into cubes. Sometimes I wished it were a dangerous snake, as it would make the job at least a little bit more exciting and adventurous. Of course, the machine could also be dangerous, if you put your hoof under it. Then there would be nothing left of my working hooves but small, grey sugar cubes.
Imagine if anypony would find that in their box of sugar.
I chuckled to myself. The fact that I could utter a laugh—if a small one—felt like an amazing achievement considering my situation.
But now was no time for laughing. Now things would have to be serious again. It was quality control time, not to be confused with ‘quality time.’ Like an endless row of snowflakes the sugar cubes passed before my eyes. But actually they weren’t snowflakes, because no two snowflakes were alike, and these sugar cubes were meant to be alike; that was the whole point. Sometimes I counted them, just to be sure that there would be a box full of them, even though I knew that there would always be one hundred and ninety-eight sugar cubes; that was the size of the mold, after all. In reality, I counted them to numb my mind and stop my thoughts from springing into every single direction. What if I would get distracted and something would go wrong? What if one of the sugar cubes would suddenly explode because I didn’t stare hard enough at it?
No, stop mind! No funny thinking.
Thinking about nothing is hard. My mind was impossible to bind in shackles. Darn it! Another colorful metaphor. Just stop it!
I moved back to load in the next mini-pile of sugar, careful to be back at the other side of my machine before my colleague would show her freckled cheeks, forever bound into a smile. What in Equestria was she always so cheerful about? As I loaded the pile in the mold, I looked around. There was nothing cheerful here, anyway. Just monotonous, grey, cheerless walls, illuminated by lightbulbs hanging high on the production hall’s ceiling. The other machines in front of us wouldn’t possibly have any good sense of humor either. So what was left? Should I ask her?
No, I thought, as I pulled the lever down and unleashed the snake. I’m not going to talk.
Besides, my shift was almost over. I looked at my watch again to be greeted with the time: ten to five—or one more press, so to speak. I didn’t even feel cheer because of that.
Instead, I felt my thoughts drift away again. The reason why my colleague always smiled just couldn’t leave my mind. It was so curious. I scooted aside, ready to begin my quality check for the last time. I’m glad I was so good at multitasking, for I could watch and count and check the sugar cubes while keeping an eye on my fellow unfortunate, who didn’t look unfortunate at all.
There she was, the blue-coated mare with the freckled cheeks. But she saw that I was looking at her, and flashed her smile in my direction. “Hi there, Sweet Tooth. How are you doing?”
“Alright,” I said, which could mean so many things. Maybe I was alright; maybe the work was going alright; maybe I agreed with a thought of mine, or one of hers; maybe my body was alright and my mind was not, or the other way around; or maybe I was right-hoofed—which I was. Nevertheless, she seemed content at the answer. But I wasn’t. I was still no hoofstep closer to discovering her infinite source of good cheer.
“What a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she said, as she started collecting the perfect sugar cubes in her gloved hooves. After that, she would put them into the sorting machine which she operated, and then pack them to be used in some pony’s tea or coffee.
“It… is?” I said, not even knowing if I spoke the truth. I glanced around and out the high window. It was a good day. The sun was shining, making the snow glimmer and glitter in its orange light and heralding the end of the day. It announced the last light retreating before evening set in. I reckon the birds that had stayed despite the season had to be singing too to make the picture complete, if the glass had not been soundproof. Of course it was soundproof; we wouldn’t want to disturb anypony with our loud machines, right? But what if I, the worker, would be disturbed by the sound? Would they build a soundproof cabin for me then? I highly doubted it.
“Yes, it is. I can’t wait to spend the evening at home. We always play board games with the whole family on Friday evening. You know, to celebrate the weekend.”
I nodded, but realized that the nod was a lie. I didn’t know how that would look like. I mean, I could picture the scene in my mind; everyone seated at the table, laughing, betting, moving their pawns or rolling the dice. But it would be like a picture. I wouldn’t feel anything. That made the picture fake and shallow.
But I had to say something back to my colleague, if only out of politeness. “That’s great! I guess you will all have a swell time tonight.”
“Definitely.” She flashed a smile as she guided the sugar cubes into the boxing machine. I didn’t have much time left. When the cubes were all snugly inside her machine, she threw her glance in my direction again. “So what are you going to do tonight?”
That caught me off-guard, for I never did do anything special in the evening. I usually got a drink in a bar or just strolled around town. I looked at the mare. “You know… fun stuff.” Another lie.
Her smile didn’t leave her face. “Well, that sounds… fun too. Fun stuff is always fun, right? Hence the name.”
“Yup.” I saw that she noticed the awkwardness of the conversation as well, and that she wanted to go back to work to end it. I decided to be a gentlecolt and end it for her. “Well, back to work,” I said, and moved to my machine again.
A steam horn blew through the hall, making me jump. Why did everything in this factory had to be so loud? Nevertheless, it was a welcome sound. The day was done.
But even though the day was done, my mission was still a failure. I hadn’t figured out what made the mare smile so much, and she was already out the door, going to her family. But even if she would have stayed here a tad longer, I doubted that I would have talked to her any more. She would undoubtedly have asked more questions that would be so normal for her but not so normal for me. It was better this way. I shut down the press, hung my helmet on the hook, threw away my gloves, and walked towards the door.
I couldn’t spot her in the line for the payments. I felt both relieved and disappointed because of that. As I took my spot at the back of the line, I realized that I didn’t even know her name. Was that asocial? It was. It was the first time I had seen her and I hadn’t even introduced myself to her, even though she knew my name already. And not knowing her name meant that I couldn’t ask anypony else about her and her mysterious smile. I looked down the line. Stallions with stubble on their chin and tired eyes looked eagerly to the end of it, where their money awaited them. There were mares too, also looking tired, and also looking forward to crashing into their beds.
This is what they all did it for then; money. My mind started to work on that. You earn money to do fun stuff. Then, when the money is gone, you do a job to earn money and do fun stuff. It was like a vicious cycle repeating itself over and over and over again. It was so simple.
And at the end of the line, there wouldn’t be money; there would be death. Work, fun stuff, work, fun stuff, work, fun stuff, death. Would we be able to work and do fun stuff in the afterlife? I didn’t hope so.
Step by step, the line shuffled forwards. It was as if my brother was reluctant to give money to the ponies who deserved it most. The workers wouldn’t know; I would. I knew the boss of Sweet’s Sugar Factory all too well, and I knew how he liked his money. Preferably lots of it. These ponies spent all of their waking hours doing the most boring work in Equestria—I guessed it was the most boring work, because I hadn’t done work any more boring—and yet it took so long for them to get their money. That was all the proof I needed; cutie marks are fake.
Of course I knew about the stuff they taught me in school, about cutie marks, destiny, special talents, blah, blah, blah. But I knew it was fake. How could destiny be so cruel as to force these ponies to do jobs they didn’t like? You could see it in their eyes. I didn’t only see tiredness, but I swore I could see also boredom. This was not what they were destined to do; I knew that. There was no other explanation. Fate had played a cruel trick on these ponies, and especially on me.
The line moved another three or four steps forward. When it came to a halt again, I turned my head to glance at my cutie mark; a sugar cube. The design was as ‘less-is-more’ as this factory’s monotonous interior. It was a white square, nothing more, nothing less. A white square on both flanks, reminding me again and again that working in the sugar business was my destiny; the thing that I would be doing for the rest of my life.
Except that it wasn’t.
It couldn’t be the truth. It just couldn’t be. There had to be some mistake. Doing the thing where your special talents flourish should be fun and should fill you with a sense of purpose and satisfaction. That was also something I learned in school. This work did none of those things. Therefore, working in the sugar factory couldn’t be my special talent, and least of all my destiny.
The line moved, as did my thoughts. They drifted to smiley mare. Could she have been smiling because she had figured out her special talent? Could this work really be her destiny and fill her up with joy and satisfaction? No, it had to be something else. It was probably the thought of spending the evening with her family playing board games. Yes, that was probably it. But despite my conclusion, I couldn’t leave the ‘probably’ out.
My turn came. I scooted over to the booth. “Name?” the stallion in the dusty booth said.
Was he serious? I was the brother of the factory director, and this pony didn’t even know my name? But then I realized how hypocritical this was for me to think, because I hadn’t even asked the name of the mare with whom I worked together. I shook my head, and obediently said my name. “Sweet Tooth.”
Without looking twice, the stallion scanned the open organizer on his desk, found the name, and read the number of hours I had worked. Picking up a mechanical calculator, he made a quick sum. Then he reached back, and grabbed a sack of Bits out of the vault. “Here you go.”
I nodded, grabbed the sack, and walked out the factory, ready to spend my evening alone on the streets.
I didn’t mean that I was homeless. Of course not, far from it. It’s just that I always enjoy a little stroll through the ‘beautiful’ part of Baltimare. Well, not really. I quickly left the industrial part of the city behind me and moved on to the somewhat nicer neighborhoods. Cozy little brick houses accompanied me on either side, together with a whole lot of other ponies returning home from work. They were mostly industrial workhorses, calmly discussing their working day in groups on the street. I noticed some ponies of the sugar factory were among them, but they didn’t notice me or didn’t know me—possibly both. If only they would know who I was…
This part of Baltimare, the residences of the workhorses, was a healthy middle between the high and beautiful estates of the factory directors and other great industrials, and the low, thatched roof houses of the commoners and the farmers. It did like to spend some time strolling through the commoners’ districts, as there were loads of parks, beautiful plots of land, and small forests over there. But the working class districts always made me feel more… authentic.
I turned the next corner and kept trotting until I could see it; the Buckingham Bar. It was not the sort of watering hole you would go to if you were a member of a high class, snobby family, but I didn’t care. I always thought the place had something that all of those expensive cocktail bars did not have: character. The bar had a certain personality created by the ponies who came here to drink, forget, or play pool. There were already some misfits standing outside. As I walked past them I heard snippets of sentences—and many curses—which indicated that they had been kicked out. Not by a bodyguard, of course, but by the barstallion himself. He was a giant.
As I entered the bar, I knew I was home. The smell of cigarettes and wood mingled with the dim light and the rough talk to create that strange, but pleasurable character. As I sat down on the barstool, I realized that I did admire the character of the Buckingham Bar. This place had more character than my whole house, including the ponies living in it. No posh haute cuisine could compare to this. I looked around at the stallions and mares seated at the table, talking, drinking, or playing cards. All of these ponyfolk seemed so carefree, so relaxed. It was as if they had nothing in the wide, wide world of Equestria to worry about. Nope, they were definitely not worried about anything, and least of all their cutie marks. To them, it was as simple as pie—or whiskey.
“I would like a whiskey please.”
“Sure,” Stomping Grounds said. He was the enormous stallion who ran this place. A stallion whose mouth was as big as his back muscles. He used to be a wrestler, until he retired.
“Thanks,” I said, as the glass stood before me. I gulped it down in one swig, feeling the warmth spreading through my belly. “Another one, please.”
“Will you stop your ‘pleasing’ alright?” Stomping Grounds slammed his hoof on the bar. “If you want something, just say what you want and quit the formalities. This is no place for formalities.”
He was right. I knew he wasn’t angry; it was all just for show. “Another whiskey,” I said.
“Now that’s more like it. Here you go.” But before Stomping Grounds could finish his sentence, I had gulped down the whiskey.
Stomping Grounds must have noticed that my desperate need for alcohol wasn’t just for getting warm again. “Hey, what’s the matter, lad?” he said, looking me in the eyes.
I didn’t want to tell him, of course, but if Stomping Grounds asked you something, you damn well answered. “Do you ever wonder about your cutie mark?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the meaning,” I said. “Your interpretation and the interpretation society gives to your cutie mark.”
The big bartender pondered over that for a second. Then he looked at his own cutie mark, a beer bottle, and met my gaze again. “Nope. As clear to me as a glass of whiskey. What? Do you wonder about yours?”
He was smarter than I gave him credit for, or perhaps he was just very good at reading ponies, a skill he has undoubtedly gotten during the many years of bartending—and maybe also in wrestling. I nodded my head. “Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t think too much, Sweet Tooth, or you’ll get a headache.” Stomping Grounds let out a heavy chuckle, accompanied by his slamming hoof. “Thanks to the whiskey!”
I chuckled along, although I did feel a bit disappointed about the bartender’s answer. He walked away from me, serving another visitor. In the meantime I tried to form a few more striking questions in my mind; questions that would give me some useful answers. But when Stomping Grounds stood before me again, he was the one who began to talk. “You shouldn’t worry too much about your cutie mark and what it means. It comes when it comes. In the end, you will find your special talent and the job that goes with it. Just let it flow, your cutie mark is always right.”
Not the answer I wanted to hear. It only stirred more hopelessness inside of me. A painful question popped up in my head. What would be worse, having no cutie mark, or not knowing how to use your cutie mark? Stomping Grounds made it sound so simple. Well, it wasn’t. Cutie marks are a lie, a fake. If I said that to the big bartender, he would certainly throw me out, so I kept my opinion to myself. Instead, I asked him, “But what if you never got a nice job because you don’t know what your cutie mark means?”
Stomping Grounds shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe you have to look at it for a long time, and see what it is. Maybe you gotta discover it yourself.”
“Discover it myself?”
“Yeah, just travel. I always thought my special talent was wrestling, which it kinda was. But then I discovered bartending after I got drunk during my retirement party and couldn’t leave the bar anymore. I saw how things were going and thought, ‘Why not try this myself?’ I guess you gotta experiment. And maybe you have multiple special talents. Who knows?”
Those words stirred something in me, a positive feeling. “You’re right! I should try things myself. I need to interpret my cutie mark myself.” But not here, I realized. This would be a chance to leave my old life behind and pursue something new—to start over. But now, we’re going to do things my way, and nopony can tell me otherwise. I would have to go and travel, and not stop until I have found my special talent, whatever my cutie mark means. And besides, maybe I would learn what it means anyway. That would be a welcome bonus.
Stomping Grounds took my moment of thought as a sign that his mission was accomplished, and that he had helped me with my sorrows. He started to turn around, but I stopped him.
“More whiskey. This calls for a drink!”
“If you say so,” the bartender said, and filled my glass once more.
* *
Hours, a couple of more drinks, and some card games later, I was on my way home. Despite the many drinks I had had, the cold, nightly winds quickly extinguished the inner, alcohol-fueled fire that burned in my belly. With a shiver, I remembered that I had a scarf and a hat in my saddlebags. I put them on, which cost me more effort than it should have.
My fogged mind was working on the ideas that had sprouted inside of it. My quest for my cutie mark, or rather, the quest for my destiny—I already had my cutie mark. I could see myself traveling all over Equestria, getting wiser and more adept at life with every town or city I visited. And maybe, if I would fail, I could go and find a way to remove my cutie mark.
Heh. Funny.
I came to the harbor, the great port of Baltimare. This was where the stuff happened. This was where the money was made. As I strolled over the pier, trying my best not to fall into the water, I gazed at the enormous cargo ships that were moored in the harbor. Finally, I couldn’t hold myself upright anymore; the world was just spinning too fast for me. I slumped against a pole and slid slowly down, until my flank was greeted with the cold kiss of snow. But I couldn’t give up. If I couldn’t even travel to my house, how in Equestria was I going to travel all around the world? I gritted my teeth, but it didn’t help; my head still felt as if it were bobbing up and down in the water. I don’t know how I did it, but I raised myself up to my own four hooves again.
“Oh, look! I am already home.”
Of course I wasn’t. I was just looking at a giant ship from Sweet’s Sugar Factory.
“Hello, little brother!”
On the hull of the ship was an image of my brother, smiling, and with a sugar cube between his teeth. Only he could make a smirk which left plenty of room for a sugar cube and some nifty salespony sayings.
I suddenly felt the urge to climb aboard and throw all of the crates of sugar cubes overboard. I wondered what a sweet sea would taste like.
You know how drunken ideas work; they come and go. I forced myself to stagger onwards, because I knew I was almost home. Leaving the port behind, I entered the fancy pants part of town. Here, there weren’t any cozy brick houses, but classy palaces. The character and ambiance was gone. Broad roads, suitable for enormously luxurious carriages, divided the neighborhood in two. Beautiful gardens with statues or carefully tended bushes sprouted between the walls and little spires of the houses. In a way, this neighborhood was like the sugar cubes of the factory: pure perfection.
Well, not for me.
Every house was different in color and shape. Everypony had probably hired a different, overly-expensive architect to erect their little castles. Would they all want to become princesses or something? Princess Sugar Tooth. Heh. I wondered what I would look like with a horn and two wings—and a dress, of course.
There came the Sweet residence. It was different from all of the other palaces. Where the others almost resembled little castles, my house had a much more modern look. The walls were as straight, square, and white as sugar cubes. Loads of windows let in much light to give the place an airy and transparent feel. Airy and transparent? To me it felt empty.
A little white wall surrounded the house, separating the front yard from the world outside. I walked up towards the porch and jangled the rope which was attached to the bell inside. A few seconds later, the porch opened with a magical glow. No ‘hello,’ no ‘welcome back,’ no ‘we’ve missed you’—not even a ‘congratulations.’ Just an open door. But I knew how reluctant my parents were to let me in. Nevertheless, I did as I always did, and entered my house.
Father stood in the doorway as I stepped inside. But he wasn’t about to welcome me back. He probably figured that I had been drinking. Judging by the smell, I guess. “Why are you always drinking after work?” he said as I hung my hat and scarf on the coat rack.
“Just enjoying my time, Father,” I said back.
The white unicorn let out a snort. “Well, as long as you don’t participate in humiliating frivolities, I suppose it’s fine.”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want to ruin our reputation.” I hoped I had put plenty of sarcasm in those words.
We walked inside the living room, also decorated in the same style as the exterior of the house. White and black and square reigned everywhere. I wobbled towards the couch and slumped down. The cold weather and the road home had sapped my strength.
Father sat down in a chair next to Mother, who looked at me with wide eyes. “Oh please tell me you didn’t go to that disgusting bar again.”
I had told them about the Buckingham Bar one time, just to show how rebellious I was. We had been in an argument and I wanted to make them mad, so I had told them. Just as with the first time, I wasn’t afraid to admit that I had actually gone there. I nodded.
Mother let out a yelp. “Oh my! Oh my!” I thought she was going to cry and ruin her pretty dress, but I also knew that she wasn’t really disappointed. She gave me a look which said, ‘I thought as much.’
I gave her the nastiest stare I was able to produce. “I guess fun is forbidden in this family…”
Suddenly, Father stepped in. “Oh, please be calm you two.” He quickly changed the subject. “Sweet Tooth, why don’t you tell us about your day. How did the work in the sugar factory go?”
“I won’t tell you about it, because it was horrible.” If I would be sober, I would have found an easy way to avoid the question and talk myself out of it. But now I was direct. Right in your face. And besides, I was still filled up with the ecstasy of my plan.
Both Father and Mother let out the same dismissive snort. “Why aren’t you grateful to have employment?” Mother said. “Work is harder and harder to get, let alone keep. You should be more grateful for the opportunity we present you as a worker in the family business.”
I felt a fight coming up. I didn’t care. “Why should I be grateful for something that I don’t like?”
Father sat down again and fixed me with his stare. “Your mother is right, son. Not only do you have a job in the family business in which you can grow, but you also have a job which perfectly matches your cutie mark. There are not a lot of ponies who could say the same.”
The word ‘cutie mark’ was like a false note in a beautiful concert to me. “Cutie mark?!” I stood up and twirled around, accidentally knocking over the overly-expensive vase on the table, although I didn’t feel at all bad about that. I believe Father grabbed it in mid-air with magic, but I was staring at my cutie mark. “Damn you, cutie mark!”
“Language,” Father said, as he put the vase on the ground beside him.
I felt my rage building. “Oh, yes. You want me to speak as properly as you do, so I can be an exact copy of you. Except that I won’t, because I will spend an eternity behind the conveyor belt, doing things that I don’t like, until I’m all grown up, and even then I won’t know what my cutie mark means.”
“Oh, please stop about your cutie mark,” Mother said. “Why can’t you be more like your brother. At least he enjoys his work in the sugar factory as vice president. He will be more than ready to inherit the family business. When we’re gone, I know for certain that the company is in the right hooves. Hooves that don’t complain and do what they’re meant to do, unlike your hooves. Or your mouth, which just complains and wails.”
To that, I jumped and smashed my hoof on the white floor tiles. I wish I had Stomping Grounds’s strength, so I would leave a crack and my point would become even more clear. “But you gave him the position of vice president, while you gave me the position of sugar cube presser.”
Father and Mother looked at each other. They knew I was right, they just didn’t want to admit it.
But I wasn’t done yet. I felt a sickening feeling wash over me as I took in their words for a second time. “How can you say that, ‘Be more like your brother.’ What sick parent can say that?”
“What sick son can misbehave so much?” Father retorted.
Mother closed her eyes and sighed. “Just a shame we had to have twins…”
My eyes flared up, and I regretted not being able to shoot fire out of them. In an upwelling of rage and sadness, I revealed my plan to them. “Then you’ll all be happy to hear that I’m leaving soon. I’m leaving to find the meaning of my cutie mark, even if I have to travel to the gates of Tartarus themselves.”
To that, Mother let out a shallow chuckle. “And what, may I ask, would be the purpose of that? You already have a cutie mark, and it describes your destiny plain and clear.”
“Sweet’s Sugar Factory is your future, son,” Father added. “Your destiny is to work. Maybe, if you would show a little more enthusiasm and initiative, you would be able to climb the ladder, but for now—“
Now it was my time to snort. “Ha! I know that whenever you say ‘maybe’ you mean ‘never.’”
Father blinked. “Never say never, son. You will ruin your whole career if you execute this strange plan of yours. At least your destiny should be a flourishing career in the sugar cube company.”
I felt the lies dripping off Father’s words.
Mother nudged him. “Oh please quit your jibber jabber, husband. You know that will never happen. Speak the truth, or you will dishonor our family as much as Sweet Tooth will. Sweet Tooth, a career? Ha! His career lies broken at his hooves, just like his destiny. It only needs one little push to shatter it like a vase.”
That hurt. A lot. I felt tears burning in my eyes, but I couldn’t give in. I tried to say something, but my voice was cracked. I swallowed, then tried again. “My destiny isn’t yet revealed; it is carefully hidden somewhere in Equestria. Hidden and waiting to be discovered. Waiting to be discovered by an adventurer, a crusader, like me.”
Father stood up and whinnied. I could see he was getting angry. “Well, Mister Crusader, your crusade ends here. You’re going upstairs now and you’re going to think about your terrible behavior for a long, long time. Tomorrow you’re going back to the factory and you’re going to like it. Sugar cube cutie mark, sugar cube factory. It’s plain and simple.”
“Yes,” Mother added. “And if you ever think about walking away from us like that, you can say goodbye to your inheritance, your job, your destiny, and your place in this family. We didn’t really want you. One son had been enough. Now that you are here, you need to earn your place in the family, but if you depart, you will betray not only yourself, but also your whole family. You will forever be an outcast, a nopony. So it is.”
“If you leave through that door,” Father said, his voice low and threatening, “you’re not going to come back in. In fact, you will not even come through the door of the front yard.”
I don’t know what hurt me more; Mother’s words or Father’s. I wanted to go. Now. But I also knew that I had to gather my possessions, and I couldn’t do that with a head full of negative emotions and the haze of whisky floating around in it. Suddenly, I felt sapped and sad. This whole argument was so terrible and unfair that I felt as if I would pass out right there and then, crying myself to sleep. But I couldn’t do that. Father and Mother would like that too much. I couldn’t let them see me crying.
I stood up, wobbled on my hooves, but held my balance. “I’m going to bed,” I said, “and tomorrow I will be gone.”
Slowly, I shuffled out the door and began climbing the stairs, which was more difficult than it sounds. Halfway up the stairs, I couldn’t see the steps anymore through my tear-struck eyes.
“Good riddance,” I heard Mother say from behind my back.
For a second, I thought about the family of the smiling mare at work. Parents who would probably say ‘good night,’ instead of ‘good riddance.’
I collapsed on my bed and cried. For a moment, I lost every single ounce of adventurous spirit I had, as it was wiped away by the flowing tears. How could they say such a thing? They didn’t want me. I didn’t know exactly what they rather wanted; me to become their slave, or me being dead. Suddenly I felt jealous. Jealous of the mare at work who had such a lovely family. Jealous of Stomping Grounds who could enjoy life because he had not a single doubt about his cutie mark and what it meant. I forced my mind to think positive, but it was so hard.
The best I could come up with was to see if I could befriend the mare at work and meet her lovely family, if only to feel the warm bonds which should be the core of every family. Not like mine, where career and results and work and money mattered so much; a family where the Bit was the head. I needed something—now more than ever. I needed a purpose. But here, I would never find it, and it seemed so far away.
And with those thoughts and feelings, I cried myself to sleep.
Best birthday ever.