I drain the remainder of the red into my glass, topping it off nearly to the rim. An entire bottle in an evening is by no means healthy, but at this moment, I care little for such things. My only concern is whether or not the alcohol will impact my penmanship and ability to draft a letter.
It is a very important letter, but one that only the bravery bestowed by intoxication can really bring out. Sober minds are sound minds, though mine has not been so for quite some time.
My fingers grasp the stem of the glass and I bring it to my lips, taking a hefty sip of what is to be my final drink of the evening.
All my attention is then given to the pad of paper before me.
My dearest Twilight,
Have I ever told you how beautiful the City of Lights is in the fall? I’ve must’ve at some point, after all, this is to be my third autumn here. But if, by some chance, it has slipped my mind, let me tell you. All the trees turn to these absolutely lovely shades of orange, red, and yellow, really bringing out the liveliness of the city’s boulevards and streets.
And then there are the fall markets, when all the farmers near the city bring in their harvests. There was an apple vendor I saw the other day. She was like a little Prench version of our beloved Applejack. Same blonde hair, stocky build, plaid attire. The only thing she failed to deliver on was her accent. Maybe a native of this city would say it sounded rustic but even three years later, I still can not distinguish one dialect from another.
Three years later and I still feel rather out of place.
A tear drains along my cheek, dropping onto the paper. I wince, praying that it will not stain the parchment. After all, it is very important and needs to be flawless, devoid of the emotional turmoil that brought it about.
But, I really shouldn’t stall any longer. I am going to guess that the news of my death arrived well before this letter, as is the nature of a world where the written word takes days to travel and a phone call conveys the same information in mere seconds. And I am sorry that you had to hear the news from someone other than myself. Before we delve into the causes of this tragedy, and of my current emotional state, I want you to know that I loved you until the very end. Your voice, your image upon the computer monitor, your smile when we chatted. All were like beacons, giving me the inkling of hope over this final turbulent year of my life. They gave me a ray of hope when everything else seemed so eager to snuff it out.
Yet, I am ashamed to admit it. But even these glimmers of hope, these beacons of a happy future, were not enough to keep me afloat forever. I miss you so dearly, my beloved. The computer has been a blessing but I crave to see you in person. I want to feel your touch, your lips, your breath against my neck. I want to smell your perfume (which I hope is still the one you used in university). I want to be with you, I want to be intimate with you. I want to, not only hear you say you love me, but I want to feel the warmth of the words as you whisper them into my ear.
And this is the first reason I have decided to take my life. The burdens of distance have finally weighed so heavily upon me. Once you leave that video call, I enter into such a state of listlessness. It’s like I merely exist just to enjoy those little weekly discussions. I endure for those little islands of interaction, those enclaves of intimacy. I live more in those two or three hours than I do for the six days that precede them.
I hope you do not think poorly of me for this, but I do need to ask you a favour. A final request if you will. I need you not to blame yourself. You’ve done everything you could for me. You went above and beyond to make these final few months of my existence something worth struggling to hold onto. This is my own weakness and not a failure on your behalf. I’d say I couldn’t live, knowing that I made you feel remorse, guilt, and sadness but, well, the point is kind of moot by now, isn’t it?
With the hardest part of the letter now written, I let out a shaky breath, feeling a sob overcome me. Though I thankfully soak it up with a sleeve, sparing the paper of another droplet.
As I glance away, almost ashamed at what I have put down on paper, my gaze naturally gravitates towards the object on the table. The one resting next to the glass of wine.
It is a syringe, filled with a clear fluid.
Morphine and cocaine, enough of it to put down a small horse. Thankfully, I am far more petite than my Equestrian counterpart.
When I had acquired the two substances, my contact laughed. He claimed that this was the very same combination used to put down kings when they neared their own demise. Though, it had not seemed to click with him that I intended to do the same thing, as he told me to enjoy whatever party I was planning to attend.
For some strange reason, I find the idea rather fitting, however.
It is reassuring knowing that I will die like royalty. For one moment in my life, I will attain the nobility I have always craved.
But Darling, it is important that I lay out all the reasons in this letter, and I can not blame my decision entirely on distance. There is also the fact that I have seemed to stall in life.
The greatest lie anyone ever told me, is that I was worth something. This city taught me more in humility than Canterlot could’ve in a decade. I have stagnated within the enterprise I work for, toiling away on designs I have no real passion for. My work has become a monotony and I have no real interest in any of the projects I find myself now working on. Thread going through fabric is now more grating than fingernails against a chalkboard.
I no longer innovate, but rather fit in as a cog, attempting to meet a seemingly endless expanse of deadlines and commitments. The phrase passion project might as well be erased from my dictionary, for I have not worked on a design of my own in months.
And why do I do this to myself? Why do I allow my passion to become my greatest strain? For a meagre paycheque which keeps me housed, fed, and leaves enough left over to stay stocked in wine, cigarettes, and the increasingly concerning number of narcotics I’ve experimented with.
After all, this industry is about networking, and those who are not willing to dabble with white powder, are pariahs to be avoided. And I can not afford to be excommunicated any further than I already am.
Like I said before, I am no longer living, I am merely existing. I am hardly more than a drone, moving from a tiny flat to a studio and back again for five days in a row. What little free time I am fortunate enough to have is eaten up by social engagements I don’t care for and friends who are hardly worth the title, attempting desperately to keep myself sane, which clearly, I have failed to do.
I miss you girls so much, and I would do whatever it takes to spend even a day with you again. Yet, my current economic situation prohibits me from even being able to dream of being able to, as my savings slowly flitter away. And that’s the cruelest thing this city has done to me. It has taken away my ability to dream, to think of a brighter future.
What is it that made me pick an overdose as the way to go?
Well, there are conditions to my death that need to be met.
First, I want to be beautiful during my funeral. Maybe that’s a little vain but it rules out the ability of using a gun or a noose.
Second, I don’t want to risk screwing it up and having someone save me. Which in turn, rules out jumping off a bridge or building. There is the risk of someone giving a damn when they really shouldn’t.
An overdose is easy enough if you know people who can get you drugs. And thankfully, my affinity for being well connected is really paying off in this regard.
Though, I can still mess up. What if one of my flatmates shows up and sees me in this state, weepy, drunk, and with a figurative smoking gun in front of me. Or what if I can’t find a vein? What if my tolerance is higher than I predict?
These are my biggest fears. I don’t fear death but I fear failing to achieve it. I can accept never seeing another day, but I don’t have the courage to face everyone and be known as the girl who made an attempt and failed.
And finally, I should really address the third and final thing that pushed me to this decision. I hate this city, Twilight.
I know that must be shocking to hear, especially with how much I’ve talked it up and spoken of its beauty and significance to me. But this city has eaten me up and spit me out. It has made me feel worthless to such an overwhelming degree that I find myself paralysed. Every decision I make seems to carry infinite weight, leaving me unable to resolve anything within my turbulent mind.
And don’t even get me started on what poverty has done to me. Last week, I treated myself to a latte and as I lamented the few bits I spent on it, I was ruined by such anxiety that I couldn’t even enjoy it. It tasted like dirt and stress, creating this toxic stew in my mind where I wondered how those coins could’ve been better spent.
I don’t enjoy even the simple things anymore. Food tastes bland to me, books never progress beyond the tenth page, and television is little more than white noise used in a desperate attempt to drown out my own thoughts.
This city has become a toxin upon my personality. Every day I feel more and more of myself slipping away as I am chewed up harder and harder by this urban hellscape. Where I was once generous, I am now jealous. Where I was once kind, I am now bitter. Where I was previously diplomatic, I am now irritable and stubborn. Every day I look at myself and wonder what I have become. I no longer feel like Rarity. I may inhabit her body, but the woman in the mirror is not her.
So, this is the greediest of all my reasons. By snuffing out my flame, while I still retain some semblance of my previous identity, I can hope that people will remember what I once was. I can hope they remember me as the generous and loving friend, and not the hollow ghoul I currently am. I want to die on my own terms, when there are still people left to mourn me.
People left to remember who I was before this city and life rotted my mind, and acted like detritus upon my soul.
I sigh, the tip of my pen tapping against the page.
How does someone even end something like this?
It’s not like I have a lot of experience in the subject.
Keeping it simple seems like the best idea. So, it’s the one I take.
Again, I must reiterate just how sorry I am for doing this to you. I wish I had been stronger, and I wish more than anything that I could be there with you. If I could have anything in the world at this moment, it would be to fall into your embrace and feel your warmth and kindness.
Sadly, all I can have now, is this chance to say good bye.
So…
Goodbye my love, you made this bleak existence almost bearable and for that I will always thank you.
I love you with all my heart.
Yours, in this world and the next,
Rarity.
Another sob hits me, though I manage to yet again avoid staining the paper. Instead, I slide it carefully into an envelope. The address of its recipient is already written upon it, so I quickly seal it and place it in my lap.
Hopefully, it will be easily found by whichever of my unfortunate flatmates discovers my body.
For a brief moment, I consider writing them an apology note but… at this point I no longer possess the faculties to draft another word.
Plus, if I were to wait too much longer, I might start getting cold feet and well…
I can’t let that happen.
Instead of lamenting, I force my mind away from the inevitable. I want Twilight to be all I think about as the needle breaks skin. I want her to be the last thing I think of before leaving this world.
I have no idea if there is an afterlife, so I can not afford to waste my last few moments.
I grab the needle and line up the glistening tip to my vein. It breaks skin and I wince, yet oddly, I find peace as I begin to reflect, as the mixture of substances hits my bloodstream.
A smile creases my lips as I remember our last night together in Canterlot, tangled together within the sheets of her bed.
It is indeed a very fine memory to depart on.