//------------------------------// // Chapter 4 - The Bunny // Story: The Stereotypical Necromancer // by JinxTJL //------------------------------// As was normal for him, Light Flow sat alone in the middle of his room. He spent pretty much all his time in his room, actually—at least, when he wasn't at school or the library. He just didn't see the point in spending more time outside than he needed, and any time he spent with other ponies was practically wasted. Unfortunately, he usually had to go back on that philosophy when his mother forced him to spend time with her. He loved her, obviously, but she could just be so annoying. Villains didn't need mothers, and villains didn't play boardgames! Not even Monopony! Meanwhile, his room—his sanctuary—was about as close as a room could physically get to a pure reflection of his inner self. It was as if he'd filled a bucket with his personal essence, shook it up, and just tossed it into an enclosed space! ...That particular metaphor may have been creepy in an uncool way he didn't like, but it didn't change the fact that there was no place he'd rather be. Being here just brought him a relentless sense of enveloping comfort. To distill its aesthetic down to a word, Light would have to say it was black. Very black. He had a black mattress, black sheets, pillows, curtains, windows... Okay, not windows, because that was apparently ridiculous, but he really wanted some. He had a black bookcase full from end to end of black-bound books about black subjects, and a black chest in which to hide his dark secrets, which was, in actuality, his dark toy chest. That didn't mean his toys weren't super dark and dangerous, though! The once-white walls had been painted entirely black and dreary, and he had...a dirty brown wooden floor that he'd laid perpetually unfitting black carpets over because his mother told him they weren't allowed to paint the floor. He didn't know why—it's not like anypony else would ever live here—but he had to concede some battles to the forces of good and his mother. He'd been staring all around the room for a few minutes at that point for... somewhat inscrutable reasons—but now he turned his attention back to the little horseshoe box he'd pulled out from where he'd hidden it under his bed. Staring at it, he couldn't help but muster a shaky swallow. He wouldn't tell a convincing lie about it, he was nervous. It felt like there was a little jagged knife in his belly, trying desperately to rip itself up his throat and slice across his tongue in a bloody line. He was very nervous, but as he was with that macabre metaphor, he was also so excited! In his experience, excitement was easily confused for nervousness, but he'd been learning to differentiate the two by how good they felt. They shared so many familiar sensations—a bursting, tearing pressure in his chest; the cutting, rending ticklishness running up his spine; even the odd feeling of burning acid in his throat. He felt it when a new series came out, and he'd felt it the first time he'd channeled mana into a simple light spell. It made him think of a quote from an old book he'd liked. "How this sparks the dark embers of my heart! The cold flare of life stirs in my soul!" So cool, but... he'd left that part of himself behind, now. He'd write that down in his now-defunct book of dark poetry, but he was moving on from all that pointlessly dreary stuff. Even villains enjoyed reminiscing on the ponies they used to be. He shook himself out of his reverie, focusing instead on the present. Now this was the kind of thing he'd been dreaming about for weeks now. He'd quickly burned through the two book stock of Necromancy-related stories the local library kept, and his craving since then had intensified so strongly that he'd resorted to reading anatomy textbooks just to try to fill that repulsive-wanting part of himself. Thinking of it—that itchy, wormy feeling—his hoof settled skittishly on the top of the horseshoe box of its own accord, rubbing over its surface longingly before he came to his senses with a shake and went further to shake his head at his limb and retract it. A good villain should wait for that which he desires. His obsession with dead things was growing by the day, but he was tired of reading. It was unfulfilling. He wanted to get hooves-on. And it was getting really hard to wait. His mother had found it outside in her garden, and she'd thoughtfully given it to him to bury. She was considerate like that—she knew how much he enjoyed tragedy. He wasn't sad, though, and he wasn't going to bury it. He wanted to play with it. He began the mental motions of lighting his horn, though his mana stalled in his veins before his horn had even begun to glow. There was a better way to do this, he knew. He wanted to physically touch it. Carefully, reverently, his trembling hooves crept out once more to rest on either side of the box's thin lid, lifting it the whole way off in a moment of pure adrenaline and tossing it aside with a shaky breath. He licked his lips, leaning daringly in as his eyes began to shine with unrestrained wonder. In the center of the open box, curled in on itself in a limp ball, was a white bunny rabbit, barely the size of his hoof. Dead. No visible injuries, but it was thin, and nearly pallid. So far, he'd pretty much assumed it must've died due to starvation, but even that was kind of hard to believe. Maybe it was just too dumb to live, because it'd died right in a garden full of plants. It must've had some weird eating deficiency. He couldn't help but stare—unabashedly, though he was hardly ever abashed. The dead bunny may as well have been a bucket of water, because he was drinking in the sight like he was a pony who'd gone three days in the desert with nothing to drink. He wanted the sight to be familiar. Best of all, his mother was out for the day, so there was no chance for anypony to see him hunched over the corpse of a woodland animal. Of course, he couldn't care less about what most ponies thought, but... his mother... He didn't want her to think he was weird... Oh, he wanted to touch it so badly—but he had to hold off until he'd absorbed every detail. He felt himself swallow on instinct, staving off the rising feeling of pressure in his throat like there was something stuck and trying to claw its way out. He licked his lips, inexplicably dry. What was most evident? Probably the evidently visible veins pressing against the expanse of the expired creature's exposed skin, even under the thin layer of its fur. With the active functions of the body having ceased, what had once been blueish was now turning purplish-grey, though he was at a loss for why. He wondered what happened to all that blood that was inside living things when they died. Did it... he didn't know... evaporate or something? Did all the decaying flesh absorb it? Did it just clot away into nothingness? His once-idle curiosities quickly grew into burning questions in need of answering, and so he made a quick mental note to look up the gruesome details in a textbook when he had unallocated alone time. What was next on his mind were the little bones pressing out of its taut skin—the ribs, especially, seeming quite obvious for how caved in its belly was. Those little sticks of bone glued onto the spine to press all the juicy meat of an animal into proper place. Fascinating to look at. He could even count them with how the bunny's skin was so stretched thin, straining all that useless material to a near-breaking point. How sad. He wondered if the especially sanctified white of bone would contrast with the animal's dirtied, loveless fur. Light Flow let his tongue dart out to wet his lips again, and the thought crossed his mind to get up and get a glass of water or something. He thought again, and then he chuckled out loud to relieve the increasingly pervading pressure building in his tight chest. The noise reverberated around his head, bouncing off the walls of his mind again and again until he was sure it'd never die. As all things did, though, it soon petered out. His visual curiosity was sated, and now he was almost ready to touch it. Tentatively, pausing for a moment in-between, he leaned his head closer to the bunny. He crept forward until the blurry end of his muzzle was skirting the line of touching its lifeless side, so close that he could probably reach out with his tongue and... ...No, that wasn't something he wanted to try right now—or maybe ever. For now... He closed his eyes, taking a moment in the silence to himself before he braced and took a deep whiff. ... He leaned back from the tiny thing and tried to reassert his flailing thoughts—actually, he went ahead and boxed them up, opened up the nearest window, and tossed them to the curb. It didn't matter what he thought of it; all that mattered was that it was time for the main attraction. Slowly—ever so slowly—he reached a perpetually unsteady hoof past the threshold of the box, creeping a hoof past the gate of reasonable doubt, then the point of no return, and finally down the well of carelessness until the softest sensation of fur tickled against the vulnerable flesh of his frog. It was... cold. He let out a quivering, disbelieving breath as the situation began to dawn over him, and he pressed the weight of his hoof against the small form a bit more forcefully. In the back of his mind, behind the pity party—the best kind of party—he knew he had to be very careful, since there was no telling when he'd have any sort of chance to be this intimate with a corpse again. It would actually be the most mortifying thing he ever did if he went and broke it. The shock of having all his dreams realized was passing, and with it, a wide grin was replacing his expression of quiet wonderment as he gently rubbed the soft bunny corpse. Back and forth: with his every delicate ministration, he felt the tiny, ticklish protrusions of its bones poking his frog, and the hollow give of its chest. He could hear how its bones creaked when he grew too daring and pushed too hard, and he'd spent long enough in its presence now to recognize the faded scent of dirt underneath a cloying... something. Some smell. This was wonderful. He was petting it just like a living animal, but it was dead! He loved it. He loved it so much. He did. He made himself love the feeling. It didn't matter if he was welling up. The hot feeling in his bunched cheeks was from exhilaration, and nothing else! He was still smiling! He was so happy! His hoof rose in a jerkish, wobbling arc from the unmoving form of the rabbit the instant that an uncomfortable drop of warmth fell atop it. Weird. How disruptive. He decided to close the box, casting a glance up as he replaced the lid to see if the roof was leaking. He found nothing, oddly enough, but it seemed like a good time to slide the box back under his bed, as he did without looking at it very much. Or at all. It was getting blurry in here. Time for bed. He turned to his bed, pulling himself onto its surface with unsteady hooves as the oddest little whining and keening noises snuck out from somewhere. Wasn't him. He was still smiling. So large and widely. It didn't matter that his teeth were chattering as he pulled himself towards the nearest pillow, and it didn't matter that the fur of his cheeks was deeply matted with inexplicable water as he laid his face directly down into it. He didn't know why the plush fabric grew so damp so quickly. He didn't know why any of this was happening. He didn't know why he was sobbing into his pillow, He was still smiling. Because he was so happy.