“Rarity, can you drive me to Apple Bloom’s?”
Rarity looked up from her table where a beautiful roll of silver fabric was taking shape. She was in the zone, lost in her work, and absolutely refused to let herself lose focus.
“Can it wait?” she asked out of the side of her mouth. “I’m busy.”
Sweetie Belle bounced on her heels. “You’re always busy.”
“This time I’m extra busy,” Rarity threaded a needle, pricking herself in the process. She sucked on her finger. “Go ask Mother.”
“She’s at work,” the younger sister explained. “Dad is too.”
Rarity rolled her eyes. She looked down at her sketches and studied them. It took a long time for inspiration to strike. It just couldn’t go to waste.
Sweetie Belle puffed out her cheeks. She stamped over to Rarity’s desk and hovered over her sister’s work. “So what’s the dress for?”
“Secret,” Rarity answered.
“Got a date?” Her voice cracked.
Rarity bit her cheek. “No. Now, please get out of my workshop.”
Sweetie Belle shook her head, her curly hair swinging. “Nope.”
“Just walk.”
“For the whole five miles?”
“Then take my bicycle.” Rarity began to unroll the fabric some more. “It should be in the garage.”
“That piece of junk? Fine.” Sweetie Belle slipped out the room for a moment before popping back in with a smirk. “If I die it’s your fault.”
She disappeared.
“Good,” Rarity mumbled, running the fabric through her sewing machine. “Maybe I’ll finally get some peace and quiet.”
The funeral was quiet.
Rarity stared at the open casket in the distance, yet she remained glued to the bench. She couldn’t bring herself to see her baby sister’s face. Just the thought alone was unbearable. Saying goodbye was not something she was prepared to do today.
“The closure will help,” her mother said, gently rubbing her daughter’s back. “Trust me. It may hurt now, but it will be better in the long run.”
The tips of Rarity’s shoes pinched her toes.
“Don’t pressure her, my love,” her father said, taking his daughter’s hand into his. His palms were worn, calloused. He even cleaned his nails. “If she needs time, she can take it.”
She did not say goodbye.
On her way out, she barely acknowledged the group of girls that were there for her. They gave her their condolences, and she thanked them for coming. It felt more diplomatic than it did comforting. She also brushed past her sister’s best friends without a word.
Rarity stepped out into the cold morning air and sat at the stairs. The wind bit at her arms, and she wanted nothing more than to return home to her bed and never leave. It was just a nightmare. A terrible, impossible nightmare. She would wake up the next morning and fight with her sister about hair products, what to eat, and a million other things that didn't matter.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a nightmare. It was worse. It was real.
And it was her fault.