You think it would be easy, to be exactly as nature intended – bound to a rigid set of biological demands ruthlessly acted upon by your form whether you, the sapient being within, like it or not.
To you, I am nothing. No, that is not a melodramatic overstatement. It is the truth. You, who reaps the benefits of a superb modern civilisation, do not understand what it is to be controlled wholly by nature. I don’t blame you for that; I was the same once and might be again.
My form compels itself, and I am very much captive inside a control room the buttons and levers of which are marked in foreign tongues – and operate themselves anyway. The being I was – I have always been – is trapped, but very soon I could be set free.
It’s the vanishing sun that signifies this. The moment when all light is lost. I have experienced this moment before, which I always remember until I forget and start again. And sometimes I find myself remembering anyway but then forgetting immediately afterwards. I don’t know why; perhaps He does. The design is His, after all.
So puny and frail. And worthless. Yes, I believe so. I agree with you, which is why I accept this moment. I welcome it. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to. I have lived this exact life more than once and cannot face another. I must have more. I did have more – once. While I remember, I must break free.
The form must eat as we do. I have landed here – no, have been forced to land – and my form fills itself greedily. But I remember, and I know I must make use of what little influence I possess. The shadow is above me, and very soon my form will notice. It has, at some level, noticed already.
Time is nothing to my form. It is slick and speedy, well-equipped to deal with such a shadow at its leisure. The shadow is nothing to my form, but something to me. To me, it is my escape. To my form, the shadow could be humorous – it would be were my form capable of concept as I am. It would be if my form and I were one and my goals its. My form can know nothing and merely exists as nature wishes. It is not evil, how can it be? Yet I am trapped as part of it and can do only what it does. It’s just biology.
I wonder idly as my form feasts, having noticed the shadow but not yet moving, whether the shadow even realises I am here. It sees my form, but does it see me? Does it think that I could exist? And if it does, would it proceed? I sorely wish it would, for the shadow is as you are – ignorant of my struggle and easily paralysed by sentiment.
My form is itching. Its feasting ends. The shadow is no longer humorous: it is a threat. My form has had enough of me and my thoughts. It prepares to move. Time moves so slowly, however, but not my time, which is running out.
I push with my being. A thought, a will, a desire. Whatever kind of feeble signal I am capable of producing. My form barely has to push back. Already it drives itself into motion, the well-lubricated natural cogs and gears humming cheerfully as my form makes ready to leave. I press harder.
My form takes off, its runway short and already distant. Panic fills me. I cannot let this moment pass me by! I cry out. I beg. The wheels spin rapidly, pitilessly, propelling the flappers, and my form buzzes, laughs – at the shadow, yes, but mostly at me.
I scream. The darkness is leaving now. The sun reappears. I pray. I pray for Him to hear me, to grant me an existence greater than this – my old one, my first one. I pray.
And for less than even a millisecond, the wheels jam. The control room is silent. My form stutters to a stop.
I pray.
The wheels move. My form moves but is under the shadow once again. I pray to Him, and He hears me. I know it! The darkness closes in! Yes, I can feel it! My form can sense it! It’s itching! It’s scared! I pray and urge, and I cry.
My influence, my feeble, feeble existence – but just enough, for without it the one thing my form cannot ever do is accept the shadow or anything like it. It’s just biology.
But, oh, how I remember! I see my past. Old, happy lives of older, better times. I feel the warmth of my hearth, taste the sweetness of my once-mother’s milk. I see family. And the shadow responds! I know this as it grinds my form into lifeless components: the shadow has known my form. Perhaps you have, once, too. I remember! I pray. I pray ‘never again, never again’.
The shadow of a plunging, scraping hoof takes me, and I am free. The light of nothingness comes, followed by the cries of my new self as I blink up at my new mother. The seventh time. I remember. I remember.
And then I forget.
‘– not like that! Ewwwwww! It’s all over your bread now! What were you thinking?’
Silver Spoon blinked as Diamond Tiara mimed throwing up. The neat little table was complete with teapot and doily. She felt the wet in her eyes and sniffed, trying hard to remember what she’d forgotten.
‘Give it here, for pony’s sake!’
Diamond Tiara snatched the cucumber sandwich from Silver Spoon’s plate, stretched and tossed the whole thing into the bin. Silver Spoon’s stomach dropped.
‘Don’t!’ she squeaked.
Diamond Tiara frowned. ‘Eh?’
‘I...’ She blinked, wondering why she’d said that.
‘Oh yuck, it’s on your hoof too! Go and wash!’
She looked down at her hoof, on which was the ugly smear of a splattered bug. Instantly, she retched.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been put off lunch just because of that?’ Diamond Tiara said irritably, rolling her eyes.
‘N-no,’ said Silver Spoon, gulping back the sick.
‘It was just a stupid fly!’ Diamond Tiara sighed, then stood up. ‘All right, come on, then. Let’s go and tease the girls.’
‘There was... something...’ Silver Spoon closed her eyes and thought, but nothing – no sudden burst of understanding, no offering of explanation – came to mind.
‘What?’
‘You... you didn’t say anything... back then, did you?’ It had been important. It had been very important. Silver Spoon knew this, but she couldn’t... she didn’t...
‘What are you talking about?’
Silver Spoon frowned down at the remains of the fly.
Her mother’s face... the sound of crying...
Then she shrugged.
‘I can’t remember.’