When I heard; Oh, darling, when I heard! A particularly big order form had come to me from Canterlot, stating that my designs would be worn in tonight's fashion show! I was head over heels at the news, positively hyper! Naturally, I spent my time during the storm getting ready and making sure every thing was perfect. My only problem was that I needed to see what my outfits looked like on other ponies; I needed a model.
Of course, the storm outside was brutal; it would wreck my gorgeous mane in seconds, and after all, I didn't style it for five hours for nothing! I contented my self with making a small dress for Opal in my work shop; Opal was a plump little angel, even if some ponies refused to say more than "Get this fur-ball away from me, it gives me night mares!" when in her presence.
First things first: I had to measure my little sweet heart, bless her white fur; I chased her around the boutique five times before I finally caught her. Opal was sitting on my silver-plated shelf, playing with my drawing pencils and sitting on- no! She was sitting on my MOST PRECIOUS POSSESSION! I swept Opal aside and opened the one thing I didn't look at for more than 8 years.
YOU may think there is nothing special about a diary that you wrote in from when you could write until you were 13; but that is probably because you still have your mother and father to talk to. I always kept one secret from every pony I knew: I was, and still am, an orphan. My father died when I was three, of a heart attack; from then on, I had my mother, whom I disliked most severely.
I opened my diary on May 20th, and settled down to read:
Dear Diary,
Today was the worst day of my life! You will not believe what I have to tell you; but then, you are the only friend I can confide in without being jeered at and bullied. Today, I woke up at 9:00 in the morning, wanting to get a hot cocoa. I had the old night mare again, the one where my mum and dad scream at each other and then my mum murders me and dad. I went down to the kitchen, and opened the door.
I was revolted at what I saw: there was empty beer and alcohol bottles every where, cigarettes and trash littered the floor. And there, right in the middle of it, was my mum; she was entwined with that bastard Smoker, smooching him with gusto!
I yelled, "Mum! What the hell are you doing?! You broke up with him yesterday!" She looked at me and smiled- smiled, can you believe her?- and said: "Times change, bunny."
I started to cry; yesterday Smoker broke my favourite toy: Kitti, the one my dad gave me! He ripped her head off mercilessly grinning and even laughing. I tried my best to hurt him yesterday- and got in trouble for it- but it was worth it: I gave him a nice long scar which went through his cheek.
My mum gave me another fake smile but I had enough: I charged up to Smoker and bashed him on the head, hard; the karate lessons I took paid off, big time. The bitch tried to fight back but I was too fast for him, and planted a nice bruise on his back; he toppled over and my mum screamed for me stop, but I relentlessly carried on until he was unconscious.
My mum sent me to my room and I gladly went to pack my belongings; right now I am on a train to Pony Ville, where my pen-pals "Rainbow Dash" and "Applejack" live. I hope I have a better life there than here.
Yours truly,
Rarity
At that, lighting flared; my mother died soon afterwards, and I still feel a lot of regret about it. But it was the right thing to do: otherwise, forgive my foul language, that asshole would have beat me to a pulp when he woke up, and my mum would've gone crazy when the alcohol worn off.
I wiped off my tears and hiccuped my self into a sitting position; something materialised in front of me. It was a roughly written letter:
Dear Rarity, this is Spike! Please help me, no time to explain! I'm at Fluttershy's, be there, pronto! It was hastily scribbled and wet.
I wasted no time in dashing through the door and going into the storm; my mane was ruined, but I didn't care: this was too important! I galloped to Fluttershy's at top speed, slipping and sliding on the icky, sticky mud. The cottage was a state; the roof was torn right off, the door was on it's hinges. Spike was clutching a tree branch in one hand and a paper bag into which he was breathing in another. He looked behind me and yelled;
Every thing else was happening in slow motion; I screamed as loud as my throat would let me. She was falling through the air like a fallen angel, a peaceful ghost of a smile plastered to her face; her hair was billowing out in the cruel wind. I couldn't think right; on the other edge of the town I heard a scream: "No! Not her! NOOOO!!!" The tears were stinging my face more than the wind; she was gone.
I ran into the hospital, looking around madly; Pinkie was there, her hair deflated and wearing a dark scowl. I tried to hug her, but she walked away.
We-we had a short conversation; I lied to Pinkie about some things, and she knew. She accused me of being a heart-less bragger. I stormed out of the hospital; I was and still am, ashamed that I lied to a friend.
Christmas wasn't going to be a time of cheerfulness and celebration for me; nor would the rest of the Christmases of my life. I lost a friend that would never see the lights of Christmas; Ever.