Sunset thought being hit by weaponized rainbows was painful. Her younger self did not know agony. She knew it now, and she’d relearn it every single day.
Every.
Damned.
Day.
The nervous tick she acquired, the habit she formed unconsciously, was a constant reminder of her failure. Little scratches, here and there in the midst of thinking about something, were nothing more than just light itches, right? At least, that’s what she thought.
It’s more than just a light itch. It’s constant and it’s always there. It’s a prickle on her skin from rubbing against fabric, and then it’s like a razor-thin needle trailing along the marks left by her nails. Playing the guitar was only one reason why her nails were short; the other was to prevent her from scratching. It didn’t work.
“You know, I got the most random scratch on my arm, it’s like someone clawed me or somethi-“
“Oh, God, Sunset! Are those bruises?”
“What? No, I- it’s just a rash, that’s all.” That was her first cue that she needed to keep this hidden. Yes, it was technically a rash, but it was not her only rash. They’re on her other arm, and the back of her knees, and half of them are scabbing.
Just a little scratch won’t make it worse. It won’t, right? But when one scratch turns into two, and then into three, and then into more than she can count, it makes it worse. It hurts at some point, from all the scratching, but it’s relief. At least the pain isn’t the mind-numbing prickling. Then Sunset has to stop, she must, because if she doesn’t, then she’ll never get better and make it go away.
And that’s when it starts to burn.
It feels like your legs are literally on fire, and it’s so noticeable. You can’t block it out, you can only wait it out. Sunset has to grip something, anything, just to give her hands something to do so they won’t go back to scratching. It’s a wonder her blanket and pillow aren’t in shreds.
It’s not painful enough to elicit a whimper, so she just hisses and whispers screams that no one hears. Everything is tense and sometimes writhing around on her thin mattress distracts her for a moment, but only for a moment. Some people say that lightly slapping it might relieve some of the pain, but that only works sometimes.
The burn lasts for a couple minutes, maybe more, but it stretches on into eternity in Sunset’s head. It just doesn’t stop, and the urge is so strong, almost overwhelming her. It’s her will alone that lets her bear it out. Then it’s gone, and the burn fades into a prickle, and if she can hold out longer, the prickle goes away. What’s left is a girl wishing she hadn’t scratched in the first place.
“Sunset, um, you shouldn’t scratch yourself. You’re going to make the rash worse. Do you want to use my lotion?”
“No, I’ve got some at home for this. I’ll be fine!” She read that scented lotion makes dry skin (or other itchy skin) itchy, and that’s the last thing she wanted. Sunset doubted it would’ve helped her anyway. She tried a “milk skin moisturizer for extremely dry skin” or something similar once, which was supposed to make skin feel moisturized for a whole day, and she ended up having to re-apply it In less than an hour.
She didn’t lie, she did have a lotion, or rather an ointment. The school nurse had prescribed it to her after drawing out descriptions of Sunset’s nightly torment, and brushed off payment as it being her duty to help students. Despite the fact that it seemed to be mostly made up of Vaseline, it worked. The only problem was forming the habit to put it on.
In the end, it’s her fault it’s persisted for so long. It’s her fault that it hurts so much and that she burns every night. It’s her fault that the healing skin stings from being stretched and compressed as she moves her legs. It always comes back to her.
In a way, she relishes the pain.
She deserves it, after all. She brought ruin and terror to so many people, and committed treason on the highest level. Perhaps this is Harmony’s way of punishing her. It makes her burn every night, so that she never forgets. If this is atonement for what she’d done, then she’d burn willingly until there was nothing but ashes left.
“Sunset, darling, why are you covering yourself up? Don’t you feel hot? I mean, yes, your jacket is essentially part of your identity, but the jeans seem a little much for this weather, aren’t they?”
“Nah, I don’t really mind it that much. Besides, they look good, don’t they?” She did mind. She minded it a lot, but she didn’t want anyone to see what her body had become; the skin seemed almost scaly and rough, and the scabs made the sight even more ghastly.
In the past, Sunset hadn’t felt ashamed very often. At most, she’d mess up in one of her lessons and scold herself because Celestia was too kind to do it herself. Now, Sunset felt ashamed for how her skin looked. It’s strange, and she can’t exactly describe why, but she’d rather not let anyone know the true extent of the rashes.
She’d never really cared about how she looked that much. She was naturally a little pretty, and the right words had been able to let her climb to the top of the school’s social ranks. That didn’t matter anymore; it wasn’t her face that she was concerned about, but her legs.
When a heatwave hit, all Sunset could see was the back of other people’s legs. They were clean and bare. They didn’t have darker skin or scabs or an almost scaly texture. They were normal legs and normal skin.
And she was jealous.
Why couldn’t she be normal? Why couldn’t she be the same and rid herself of heat-trapping jeans and be able to play sports and games again? Why couldn’t her skin stop burning? Sunset had no answers to her questions that could satisfy her as much as the one she developed for herself: it was her own fault.