//------------------------------// // Heartburn // Story: Indulgence // by Quill of Filth //------------------------------// Dilate's eyes followed the pink earthpony mare as she walked her walk of shame and lonesome defeat. Watching her leaving at the distant threshold obscured by the many boisterous ponies, he spoke. "No. He just wants the pain to end." His awareness coming back, he glanced over his shoulder at the stallion on the ground. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Dilate saw curiosity, then shame, then they averted their eyes, appearing dejected. Without a word, Dilate left him and sauntered through the party, the ponies around him a blur. "Uh, sir, can I ask you something?" Glancing over, Dilate saw a tan stallion with a finely combed cerulean mane, who wore the waiter attire. He stopped and stood idle, giving the stallion his full attention. "Absolutely!" The stallion pawed at the ground with his hoof, finding something of interest. "I was wondering if I could get a.. a raise?" Dilate looked around at the rambunctious ponies. "Hm. It has been tough I imagine. How about a bonus?" "Really?" The stallion blurted, surprised he was being humored. "Nope." The stallion's hopes appeared stolen as he lowered his head with tucked ears. He nudged the stallion in the chest. "Just kidding. I'll have to check the books but," he said, waving him away with a shrug, "It'll be fine. Sound good?" "Uh, yeah! That'd be great!" "It won't be as much of a surprise anymore but I doubt you care. I'll get it to you soon." "Okay, thank you!" The stallion said, both of them departing. He opened the door to his room, looking around, then shut it behind him. He fell into his seat, swirling the half empty drink, staring at nothing, simply wallowing in his hollowness. But his body felt pleasant, warm, and relaxed. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a drink, the tangy and bitter elixir coating his taste buds then funneling down his throat, leaving a residual burn. Dilate began to mull over what Pinkie had said. Normally he rolled his eyes at the idea of moral authority or even superiority, acting sanctimonious, especially when it came with finger wagging, or tut–tutting, but she didn't seem that way, instead, she seemed concerned and genuinely hurt... But who was to say they had the key to someone else's chains? Or if they're arrogant enough, a master key? After all, it was freeing simply being able to do what one found fun whenever. His mind manauevered specifically to what she said about potential, almost alluding as if they had a destiny to fulfill. Which in a sense, they did, and under different circumstances he would envy that about ponies in a way. But now, he laughed at the idea of destiny due to what it gave him… He brought the glass to his lips again, taking a swig. No, he observed everything with a jaundiced eye. He viewed life as a cesspool of chaos, random chance, a snowball effect of reactions that led to the body he possessed, a prison vessel to experience the pain of being, waiting to decay into nothingness. There was no meaning, no underlying order, no reason to aspire to some unattainable perfection or even higher 'good'. No reason to overcome flaws and be a better creature. That was to live like a slave, only for someone you loved to die, only to get a chronic disease, only to die yourself. All of it, for nothing. Gone into the windless silent void. So why did he live? He swirled the drink around in the glass. Some drink to feel pleasure, or to simply feel, some use it to forget, others use it to escape, some use it for all of the above. But the harsh reality quickly comes knocking, but for Dilate, it was always there, like a specter haunting him with its constant presence. But the moments of relief brought happiness. Words echoed in his mind. You don't want to be happy... You want a meaning to sustain you through pain, and tragedy, and to give you a reason to get out of bed. To move forward. He brought the glass to his lips again, and gulped down the burning elixir, as if attempting to poison the seed planted. Swiveling in his chair, it gave a loud creak and groan, leading him to look down at it. "Didn't know you were angry," he chuckled. "Good thing I don't weigh that much." His eyes flicked to the acoustic guitar propped up against his desk. An urge overcame him, and acting on it, he placed his drink on the counter without looking and reached out, grabbing the guitar by its neck then resting it over his lap.  His fingers found a position along its neck then he began strumming. Hearing that it sounded a bit out of tune, he twisted a tuning peg at the top, the sound rising as he flicked the string with his thumb. Satisfied, his fingers along the neck got into position again then he started strumming. He attempted to find a rhythm. It continued that way for a while until he attempted to find the proper transition with his fingers repositioning, but it sounded discordant upon the ears, leading him to go back home. The strumming continued then he tried again, but this time, he stayed on the new chord, trying to determine if he liked it or to see where it could or wanted to go. But he returned home again. He tried again, this time finding something that rang true. He went back home and played the two chords in quick succession in a certain rhythm and instantly found the next transition, then the next. The chord progression had developed into a riff of gloom– despite the growing soreness of his right forearm. But upon its third loop, his fingers missed the mark, creating an unpleasant discordant sound. The cycle broken, he went back home and tried again. On his second attempt, he played through but his fingers weren't nimble enough, the disjointed timing creating a discordant sound emanating an abrupt end. He growled in frustration. He tried again, managing to fulfill the loop twice, but the soreness in his forearm took a toll, the burning traveling down his arm, elevating whatever pain he may have attempted to alleviate, leading to his inevitable failure at maintaining the pattern… He growled, pulling the guitar from his lap and propping it back against his desk while grabbing his wine glass. He brought the glass to his lips again, but the bitter elixir didn't touch them. Looking at the glass, he saw no red wine left. Empty. He stood up and sauntered over to another table, putting the glass under a nozzle as he pushed down on it. But nothing came. He realized he drank the last of it when he tried to offer Pinkie Pie some. Sitting back down at his desk, he pulled open a drawer. But there was no spare bottle. As if on cue, knocking sounded at the door. "Come in," he called. The door opened and shut, a pale mare with a mane in a bun standing in front of him with a bored expression. He thought it was perfect timing, serendipitous, or what others would call aid and influence from the divine. "Well, if it isn't my favorite waitress," Dilate greeted. "Maybe we could do something fun later, 'ey?" The mare grimaced. "Fair enough. You're the boss," he reminded her. The mare's shameful eyes looked side to side for a few moments, then strengthening her resolve, met his. "... Sir. We're having a hard time managing the behavior of some of the guests. It hasn't even reached nightfall yet." "Don't worry about it," he handwaved. "Let them have their fun. But do you mind getting me some more medicine?" "Sir, we can't keep doing this. Especially at night. It's getting out of hoof," the mare said. "I don't know how we're going to handle the masquerade tomorrow," she mumbled. "You've never been one for good parties, huh? We've dealt with it before, we can deal with it now. I may have thought the masquerade was a great idea, but you agreed, you even convinced me we should do it. Now do you mind getting me my medicine?" The mare appeared disheartened by his response. Her brows furrowed. "No." Dilate noticed her solemn expression, one of aggravated refusal, and felt a flicker of suprise, but it was quickly engulfed in irritation. He feigned a laugh. "Haha, very funny, Silvertray. Come on, what have I done to you? You know where they are, right? My special concoction?" Silvertray spoke in a dejected tone as she turned to leave. "Get it yourself." The ball of anger exploded. Dilate slammed his hand against the table, the sound of glass shattering. Silvertray's eyes widened as she looked over her withers. Feeling sharp pains in his now hot hand, Dilate lifted it off the oak table. Glass shards in his hand reflected glints of light as blood dripped onto the table. Silvertray lifted her foreleg as though she were about to help, but seeing Dilate's grave visage, she averted her eyes and looked to the floor. Silvertray simply opened the door, and shut it behind her, leaving Dilate alone. He fell back into his seat. Blood rippled and pooled around the shattered glass where his wine used to be, getting various papers with scribbles and scrapped letters wet. Pain shot through his nerves as he opened and closed his hand, the glass shards digging into flesh and cutting into tendons. He closed his fist, pain burning and radiating as it shook. Opening his hand again, reaching out with his fingers, he began plucking bloody glass fragments. Some were stubborn, requiring a bit of a jiggle before being pulled, forcing a wince. He moved his hand around, using the light above to find any remaining glints. Finding none, he took his suit off, placing it on his chair, and unbuttoned his white undershirt with mostly one hand and a growl. Pulling it off, he wrapped it around his hand in a tight bind, the shirt already turning crimson. His dull red eyes examined his hand, then traveled up his bare arm, resting upon a hefty chunk of flesh missing from his bicep surrounded in scar tissue. The pain was a strong ache in his hand, but what one would normally find unpleasant, he found relieving. Despite the dispersal in location, he knew it would be short lived. Wiping the stained blood off of the oak table with a paper towel, and throwing it away into a nearby trashcan, he noticed blood dripping through the shirt. He groaned. Putting just his suit back on, he sighed as he sauntered to the door cradling his hand. He passed various ponies again, oblivious to the chaotic behavior around him. But one pony did stand out, like a beacon of shining light, becoming a focal point. Silvertray was talking with a security guard near the entrance. At first, he was struck with a pain of shame, causing him to frown, but an idea bubbled from his mind, influencing a smile that tugged at his lips. Hunched over, with a devious grin, he tried his best to keep his hoofsteps quiet. The commotion seemed to completely mask his steps as the distance shortened. He pulled his injured hand close, and slowly extended his other hand toward her.  He planted his hand on her croup near her hip. "RAH!" Her body jolted in response with her head jumping to attention.  She whirled her head around, immediately giving a disappointed look as if to say 'really?'. But her expression melted into one with knitted brows, her concerned cerise eyes glancing at his hand held close to his gut. Dilate chuckled to himself at the initial reaction. "Hey, would you mind looking after the place for a minute? I gotta see the doc," he said, showing his wrapped hand for emphasis. But before she could even respond, he was already waltzing backwards toward the exit. "Thanks. I know it's above your pay grade but I'll make it up to you. Promise," he emphasized pointing at her. Giving a reassuring smile, he pivoted around to face the exit. Passing the threshold, the sunlight nearly blinded him, causing a dull ache behind his eyes. He brought his good hand above his head to block the bright light. Dilate chuckled to himself upon thinking of a quote. He continued down the street. His eyes darted up and down, paying attention to the 'ground'. Despite being a more land oriented creature, Las Pegasus was designed and constructed to be more accessible to other species, but even so, it was dominated by pegasi and still dangerous. All it took was one misstep and he would be falling through the clouds to his death. He wondered if he should have a unicorn cast a spell on him or perhaps wear an enchanted amulet to be safe. But then again, he didn't really enjoy living in the clouds anyway. But it was a necessary sacrifice. After a minute or so, he stopped at a building and entered inside. Luckily, there was no line, and only ponies waiting, so he approached the mare behind the counter. "Hello," Dilate greeted, "I'm here to see doctor Glean." The mare's eyes studied him for a few moments. "Do you have an appointment?" "Well, no, it's more of–" he grabbed his arm and lifted his wrapped hand for her to see.  At first, her eyes widened, then she gave him a look that he was not of a sound mind. "Do you need to go to the hospital?" Dilate waved her off while holding his hand. "Nah, I don't think so... Maybe. No."  The mare raised a brow. He sighed. "Look, just tell him Dilate is here to see him so I can be done with this." With some trepidation, she pushed herself back and off her chair and trotted away, disappearing from sight. Dilate let his attention wander in an attempt to pass time, leading him to notice the pegasi sitting around, and though subtle, and mostly intuitive, they were displaying and exuding a certain demeanor, which made the air thick with awkwardness. "Long wait?" He asked aloud to no one in particular.  No one gave him much attention, if even a passing glance. "Don't worry, they'll probably tell you your fine and send you home." A few moments later, the mare appeared again, but this time, accompanied with another. "Dilate?" The other mare said. "Right this way." Dilate followed the mare, appearing handcuffed as they made their way down the halls. They stopped at door number six, and the mare turned to face him.  "He's currently finishing caring for another patient, Dr. Glean said he'll be with you shortly." The mare trotted away, leaving Dilate alone in the hallway. He stood in the white neat hallway, looking for something external to keep him occupied. He could hear muffled voices on the other side of the door but also a strange tapping sound. Looking down, blood was dripping through the wrap on to the sterile white floor. Groaning, he put his ear to the door and began to listen. "So, with the blood test we'll check your liver, but like I said, we should be more concerned about what's going on up here." Dilate groaned and rolled his eyes and opened the door. Inside, his apathetic expression shifted into one of being perplexed. Dr. Glean was talking with a stallion who Dilate instantly recognized– the one he and Pinkie fought over. "Do you mind, Dilate?" Dilate looked at Glean and smirked. "Sorry doc. Got a problem." He showed his wrapped hand for the umpteenth time. Glean noticed the makeshift bandages and exhaled through his nostrils, his angry visage remaining. "Excuse me for a moment," Glean said, getting up. He washed his hooves and sat down at an extra small table nearby, waving Dilate over to have a seat. Dilate obliged, sitting down with his arm outstretched on it. Dilate and the stallion's eyes met for a brief moment, and he saw the same shame but this time enveloped in awkwardness. Glean unwrapped the bandages, revealing his red soaked hand that instantly trickled with blood like a leaking faucet. "Mother of Celestia, Dilate. How did this happen?" "See, I heard a funny joke, and when I went to hit my hand on the desk, it unfortunately hit an empty glass." "That's quite the joke," he grumbled. The doctor moved his hand around further getting the full picture of the damage, his hooves getting blood at their tips. "You may need stitches for this." "Really?" Dilate replied, unamused. "Can't you just bandage it up?" "These lacerations are deep, Dilate, and going to scar. You're lucky you didn't sever a vital tendon. We don't want another infection do we?" The words cut deep, eliciting silence from Dilate for few seconds. "Just wrap it," he asserted, attempting to quell the anger. Glean shook his head, scooting back in his chair to grab a few things along with bandages from the drawer. He put a bottle upside down over a cloth then without warning, started to clean his hand, making Dilate wince, which he didn't mind– physically at least. Then using bandages, he wrapped Dilate's hand in a brisk, precise, and almost rough fashion. "Here. Spare bandages and some band-aids for the fingers," he said, sliding them across the table to Dilate. "Maybe you should have the horns instead," he grumbled, taking them and heading for the door, while Glean washed the blood from his hooves. The stallion and him shared another glance as he passed. "You're welcome!" Glean called, as Dilate shut the door behind him. In the hallway, with his hand still on the doorknob, Dilate's gaze rested on the white floor with gouts of blood, thoughts and memories playing in his mind. They were so vivid that despite his irritation, and desire to just leave, something else deep within surfaced and took priority. One could say it was curiosity, which is what he may answer with when asked, but the true emotions' roots were strong enough to keep his hand on the doorknob then turn to place his ear against the door. "Sorry about that. Anyway. Depending on the amount of consumption, your neurotransmitters and receptors could be damaged. Hopefully not irreversibly. But to me, it sounds like you are severely depressed, so we could prescribe you with some antidepressants. That'll help alleviate your current mood and elevate it in the future and prevent a relapse. But we could also go with something like naltrexone. But since you have a history of extreme anxiety, and are more susceptible, I was thinking we could go a different direction and try benzodiazepines." Dilate gripped the doorknob tight, his eyes searching with intensity, the chaotic conflicting unstable yet intertwined emotions growing in size and severity. With little resistance, it burst, consuming him. Dilate opened the door and shut it behind him, his posture stiff, his head bowed, ire in his eyes as he stared at Glean. Glean raised an unfazed brow. "Yes, Dilate?" "What's the treatment?" "None of your concern." Dilate looked at the stallion who was now looking back. "Don't listen to him. He doesn't have your best interest." "And you do?" Glean answered. "He's trying to get you addicted to what he's giving. To keep you broken forever." Glean leaned forward. "I'm trying to get my patient off of the substance YOU gave him. Something you can't seem to fathom." Dilate's furrowed brows deepened, and he closed his bandaged fist tight, the red spreading. "You think the money will make any difference? That exquisite house, that land, all of those useless things will solve your unhappiness, make you feel fulfilled. You're a greedy old pony, profiting off of incurable pain... Stop hiding behind your lab coat." "And this is coming from you– the same satyr in a suit who owns a business that is profiting off of self destruction because it's 'fun'. You're projecting your misdeeds on to others, along with your misery. What do you have without that drink of yours?" Rage coursed through Dilate, one that had been brewing deep within him for a long time, amplified by an invisible powerlessness. The hidden chains had manifested. But despite this, a smile crept to Dilate's lips, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "A customer cured is a customer lost, right, doc?" Glean's glare deepened. The stallion and Dilate's eyes met again, and he saw the confusion in them, the intrigue, and the doubt. Turning around, Dilate opened the door and shut it behind him, walking down the hall with a closed fist, leaving a trail of new drops of blood on the white sheet vinyl floor. Dilate shut the door to his office. His eyes flicked to the side of the room to the whiteboard. He stopped in front of it examining the notes. All of it was written in a sloppy flowy style, one of them illustrating a plan for a special event, another talking about proper layout, but one section stood out the most with three big H's. Hook. Hobby. Habit. Dilate's brows furrowed as the anger rose again, leading him to turn away. He made his way over to his chair which he fell into. Grabbing a quill, he started to write on a scrap of paper. His handwriting was jittery and jagged at places, leaving little drops of ink that distorted words, but he noticed he left a smear of blood on the paper when his hand drifted left, causing him to cease. Tilting his bandaged hand to examine it, he noticed tears in it at the palm, and a splash of bright red on white with the blood seeping through. He sighed, dropping the quill. He glanced over at the acoustic guitar propped against his desk, then turned his bandaged hand again, pinching his index finger and thumb together before moving his wrist. The verdict was grim. Knocking sounded at the door. "Come in," Dilate said. The door opened and closed, but Dilate was too preoccupied with his own thoughts. "How'd it go?" Silvertray said. Without looking, Dilate lifted his hand, showing it off, then let it fall to the desk with a thud, the pain flaring for a few moments. Silvertray trotted over to him and examined his hand. "Did he not wrap it well or what?" She asked, prodding his hand with the tip of her hoof, then turning it over to see his palm. He pulled it away. Silvertray's eyes wandered the floor for a moments. "Who was the pink mare?" Dilate finally looked at her. "Pinkie Pie? I'm surprised you don't know about her. Live under a rock?" "Nope, in the clouds," she replied, with a small smile. Dilate reciprocated the smile for a moment. "Hm, well, she's one of the biggest party ponies around, and I invited her to see if she could help spruce up– er, make the place more appealing for our guests, more fun and engaging." Dilate sighed. "And to increase profits," he finished offhandedly. "Did it not go well?" She asked. "Nope. I just thought we shared a common interest." There was a pregnant pause, with Silvertray glancing at Dilate's hand, traveling to his upper arm, then back at him intently... "Do you need a drink?" She finally asked softly, breaking the silence. The question was simple enough at its surface, but its true depth was illusive, with Silvertray's gentle tone resonating within him. It felt as if she was relenting, offering him a drink despite not wanting to, but also offering it out of empathy. The temptation to fulfill the longtime habit was strong, but looking at her, his emotions stirred, and he felt something deep within him, a seed twinkle. "Not tonight. I think I'm just gonna head to bed early." Silvertray seemed surprised for a few moments, then offered a warm smile. "Alright." After a few hoofsteps, she opened the door, gently closing it behind her, leaving Dilate by himself. Dilate couldn't help but sigh again. He grabbed the spare bandages from his pockets, tossing them on the table, then unwrapped the bandages from his hand, seeing the dried blood on his palm and some fresh spots near wounds. He quickly wrapped his hand in a careless fashion. Once he finished, he simply sat idle, the dead air incentivizing his mind to wander and emotions to resurface, threatening to consume him. But it wasn't long before he didn't want to think about how he felt. Or even feel at all. He let his eyes wander instead, looking for distractions or anything of substance to meet them, which then laid upon the vase holding a bouquet of white trumpet flowers.  His stare devolved into a wince as he growled to himself. Sitting up, he sauntered to the other side of the room, tugging the pull switch for the lamp, and the light overhead, darkening the room. He laid onto a couch off to the side of the room, staring at the ceiling. Lifting his hand, he looked at the bandages, seeing it wasn't leaking, but there was still a blotch of crimson on his palm. He let his hand fall onto his chest over his heart, and closed his eyes, hoping to fall into a tranquil and numb slumber. But he would only get half of his desire. Collapse is coming. The voice was clear, concise, and without malice, yet ominous. It had a grand pithiness. At his desk, Dilate looked up, seeing an empty room. He put a hand over his head. He needed a drink. Looking around the room, he felt like something was out of place, as if the layout was shuffled, the "order" disturbed. But he didn't dwell on it. He opened a drawer for a drink and found it empty. He checked his dispenser with the same results. He gave a frustrated growl. A weight formed on his upper arm that moved lower, but its heaviness grew enough that Dilate couldn't ignore it and had to examine it. A large iridescent snake was coiled around his arm, and for some reason, he simply watched its head move, as if he were mesmerized. The fear was present and it was potent, but so was the confusion and even a morbid curiosity. He watched with a keen eye, painfully aware of the venom it could inject. The snake turned its head and looked him straight in the eyes, piercing past them, peering into his soul. Dilate was still unsure of the snake's intentions, docile or hostile, but he felt something emerge from his depths, complex and enigmatic to an extreme degree. The serpent gave off the impression that it knew him. He waited with bated breath. The snake moved its head to look at his arm, then leaned back, then lunged. Its fangs sunk into his flesh, its jaws gripping his arm as its body constricted. Panic surged through Dilate as he felt fluid enter in his arm, leading him to grab the snake by its neck and attempt to yank it off. It writhed as he used all his strength, but the snake was powerful, and he felt that it could break his arm with its strong girth if it so desired. But with the aid of his adrenaline, he managed to pull it away and throw it a few feet. He grabbed his arm, his chest heaving, and his eyes wide. On instinct, he inspected the damage, rotating his arm while wiggling his digits, noticing two bloodied puncture marks in his fur. A wet churning and tearing sound resembling crumpling wrappers touched his ears, prompting him to look for its source. On the desk, a raven was picking and pulling with its beak from a brick-red lump of flesh. He couldn't make out the organ or it's identity. "Why can't you see?" Internally startled, Dilate pivoted to the voice, seeing Silvertray standing with a frown holding a tray with a bottle. "I can see you got me what I needed," Dilate offered. She frowned. The bottle exploded, red wine spraying on the floor and over her body. She screamed. Dilate's eyes widened seeing her fall to the floor, writhing as if the wine was boiling water blistering and scarring flesh. A burst of panic shot through him as he rushed over to help, but he slipped, tumbling forward using his hands to catch his fall. Pain jolted up his arm causing him to cry out. But the pain was the least of his concerns as the screams filled his ears. He used both his arms to crawl over to her, where he tried to grab her and pull her away from the puddle of wine, but as soon as his hands touched her, pain flared in his hands. He withdrew them swiftly and looked at the damage. Steam came from them as the skin was peeling away and the flesh was exposed. Silvertray's movements slowed, becoming sluggish, as the vigor faded from her body. "Don't die on me! Please!" He used his words as if they were magic and could alter reality, and with this notion he offered everything he had, but it was in vain.  Dilate's eyes fluttered open, a dull ache in his sockets, leading him to squint. He sat up, putting a hand to his throbbing head. Removing his hand, he noticed the red blotch still on his bandage. One word managed to surface in his drowsy and aching mind. Drink. But as soon as he sat up, the weakness in his limbs were apparent, and when he went to walk, it was as if he awoke with vertigo without being necessarily dizzy. The delirium from emerging from sleep combined with a brutal hangover led him to stumble a few times, a churning growing in his stomach, like something needed to and was going to erupt from his core. Lurching forward, he collapsed to his knees beside the trash can, retching. Putrid tasting bile gushed from his mouth, each heave leading to another burst of stomach acid and chunks of unrecognizable food. He used the time between each expulsion to catch his breath, coughing, and spitting in an attempt to cleanse his mouth of the bitterness. His throat burned, and it felt like it was spreading throughout his chest. Expectorating for a bit, he cursed his wretched body.  His purging had finally stopped, but his breath was still labored. Waves of tingles and coldness coursed through his body, but the headache, and the growing burn in his arms, particularly one, eclipsed it. His right arm shook, straining to hold him up, and he relinquished control, letting himself roll to the ground.  Pain, a hole that ached in his tricep wreathed in flames, made him lay a hand over it. "Good morning, world." Time seemed to blur, the fog of drowsiness and residual sleep lingering, though his awareness was also acute. The pain was constant, and with his attention, he tried to observe the bodily sensations and determine if the pain climbed in severity. He couldn't tell. Sitting up with a wince, determining sleep was not going to be possible, he got to his hooves and stumbled to his desk, this time not from a pleasant alcoholic stupor. He slapped his bandaged hand on his desk, pain flaring as he used it to guide himself around it to the seat. Falling into it, he winced. The chair groaned under the weight. "Yeah. Me too." Figuring he should probably get to work, he pulled open a drawer, then tossed a binder on the desk with many tabs at the top. Opening it, he licked his fingers, turning to a specific page. The various numbers on the page seemed to amplify the ache in his skull. He grabbed the quill from the table, dipping it into the ink cup, and started to write, with disdain. He was tired of the pressure, the chasing of higher numbers. To him, the bits were used to do fun things and things that were freeing. Freedom. The intensity of the burning in his tricep forced him out of his mind. He pulled the quill away before it could form a puddle. His handwriting was jagged with black spots, like holes of void destroying letters and coherence. Knocking sounded at the door, amplifying the thumps in his head. "What," Dilate growled. Entering the dark room, Silvertray did a double take, the light from the hallway behind her stretching across the floor, touching the shirtless satyr in the darkness, his hand resting on his forehead while looking down at the desk. "Shut the door. No light." "Where's your suit?" "On the chair. You're here early." "Is that okay?" Dilate gave a grumble. "Are you okay?" She asked approaching him, then her muzzle scrunched up. "What's that smell?" "I just puked some of my misery away. What do you want?" Silvertray's disgust faded as her eyes wandered the floor for a moment. "I'm… just here to make sure we're up to speed about the party tonight." "Nothing's changed." There was a poignant pause. Then Silvertray ended the gap. "Do you need something?" The urge presented itself to him, the temptation like an alluring beckoning finger, but like a raging inferno, the resentment consumed it. He winced. "Water, and an ice pack. Please." Silvertray turned away. "Also, before you go," he lifted his bandaged hand, shakily cradling three bags of bits, "Give this to Pristine for me." Looking back, she raised a brow but allowed him to place the bags on her back. She sauntered to the door, glancing at Dilate one last time. The door shut, signifying his solitude. He let his eyes wander to the clock high on the wall, squinting to see it was already past noon. He hadn't slept that long in years, which he would normally appreciate, but along with the rude awakening, something about his sleep evoked enigmatic figments, something he couldn't grasp or visualize but could only feel unpleasant echoes of. Thump-thump thump-thump thump-thump The sound of his steady still burning heartbeat led him to put a hand to his chest. He wondered why he could hear it. He figured it was the aftershocks of his body's response to being hungover, with the stomach acid he vomited staining his esophagus, but it felt different. Almost like he'd finished a jog. Time seemed to drag, as the sound of his heart and the clock overlapped, and the fiery pain in his arm was on the periphery of ensnaring his full attention. The temptation to fulfill the habit, the vicious cycle he lived, grew ever more alluring as time ticked on. It would alleviate his headache, and pain, giving him the strength to persevere and break the cycle. Just one wouldn't hurt, right? Looking at the binder, he glared, forcibly closing it. The chains that bound him must be broken, he thought, he needed to be free. He no longer wanted to be a slave to synapses. He refused to take the fall… A fleeting thought passed, positing why things so good, that reached pleasant heights, always have to fall so hard? An answer made him grin ever so slightly. What goes up, must come down. His finger tapped on the desk, the fire in his arm gradually increasing as did the tapping. The specter's presence that never left his side grew ever closer– the irremovable thorn, the thing that kept him shackled to his prison. But he vowed to be free, no longer bound to his begrudging servitude. But it was eternal to existence. A child when born gave wails, cries, from the sheer overbearing stimulus, and from the one thing it felt above all else, the grim truth underlying life. It was now doomed to live a life of struggle, and tragedy, fated to die. And it all came from love. Or at least, that was the best case scenario or ideal one. Otherwise it emerged from a carnal desire, a creature simply acting on pleasurable instinct, which he himself may have been guilty of. Love was something he viewed as a mechanism of the mind, an instinct to incentivize procreation for lasting survival, to perpetuate more suffering. It was the perfect lie. Light pierced through the darkness, stretching across the room bathing him, threatening to sear his retinas, then it receded back, followed by a thud as the door shut. Silvertray sauntered over to him through the dark. A tray was placed in front of him, and he saw a few tall glasses of water. Without any thought, he reached out and took it, bringing it to his lips. The cold liquid graced his mouth, cleansing it before funneling down his throat, spreading throughout his chest, alleviating the burn. He gulped down, the glass tilting higher as the water disappeared into his lips, until it was gone. Placing the glass, he let out a strained exhale. Looking over, he saw Silvertray offering a bag of ice with a worried countenance. He took it from her hoof, pressing it against his upper arm. The nerves collided in sensation, then it slowly began to dull. The fire diminished in severity, the ice numbing the pain to a mere ache, eliciting an exhale. "Feel better?" She asked in a hush. "A little." Silvertray stared at him, seeing he was in bad shape with disheveled fur, bags under his eyes, and his bandaged hand shaking. She sighed. "Do you need a drink?" "No!" He snapped. She leaned back, startled by his outburst. "No," he reiterated at a lower volume. The air was thick, and heavy, weighing down on her body, the pressure climbing as the silence lengthened. He spoke just under his breath. "The best prison is the one you don't realize you're in. Maybe that's what love is." Silvertray frowned. The poignant pause lengthened until she finally spoke. "Are you not gonna come dance?" Their eyes met for a brief moment. Dilate looked away. "No." Silvertray's ears tucked back, her cerise eyes downcast. She seemed to nod to herself then turn away, leaving with a brief curtain of light that vanished with the shutting door. Th-thump th-thump th-thump He placed his bandaged hand over his chest. "What is happening?" But something else snagged his attention just out of the corner of his eyes. He looked in the shadowy corner of the room where he swore he saw movement, but nothing was there. A feeling emerged, making him freeze and his breath hitch. The feeling itself isn't what bothered him, what was strange is it felt almost outside of himself. It manifested as maniacal laughter. Instantly, he attempted to rationalize it, figuring it was just the commotion from the casino floor bleeding through the walls. It wasn't uncommon to hear some cheering every once in a while. But it felt so real. The shadows in the corners of the room took on a whole new nature, concealing what was lurking, threatening to consume the whole room. He wondered what was causing the irrational fear, one only a child would have. His own wellbeing didn't matter to him after all, and because of this, he refused to turn on the light.  The burning in his arm had returned, and examining the ice pack, it was now only lukewarm water. But it was bearable, until it started to climb, and climb, and climb. Ignoring it only lasted for so long, it seemed to intensify, consuming his perception like a vain admonishment, filling his being. He growled, gripping the edge of the table as his body shook. He slammed his bandaged fist on his desk. His eyes searched the room for any way to make it stop. They laid upon the trumpet flowers. In a rage, he slapped the flowers across the room with his bandaged hand, the vase shattering. But his sight resting on his hand and seeing the pieces on the floor, an idea manifested. Stumbling to the pieces, then collapsing to his knees, he rummaged through them swipping the flowers away, finding a piece that was slender and sharp. Getting back up shakily, he stumbled to his desk, and fell back into his seat. Looking at the shard in his hand, he searched his body. His eyes rested on his goat legs and with labored breath, he brought the shard to his left leg. Looking up, the sound of dripping filled the air, and he let out a sigh. The blood eventually dripped down at a steady rate, like a broken tap. But something else in his ears took priority. Th-thump th-thump th-thump Even with his steady breath, his heartbeat refused to slow down, pumping fiery blood of its own will. A looming doom overcame him. A sense that something was coming. He wondered if he should continue to injure himself, to get relief, but it felt miniscule in comparison to what was just on the horizon. But something in him answered his question, replying with no, and in response, he asked 'why not?' The fear he felt earlier returned, but its intensity grew as he no longer felt alone. It felt like he was being watched, a bunch of eyes were observing him. Despising him. Judging him. But it felt like something beyond him, beyond simply evading his perception and hiding in the shadows, he felt there were things that transcended his observable surroundings, things that knew all his flaws, his issues, it made him feel naked. Exposed. Inside out. Being under the magnifying glasses, a powerful fear coursed through his fiber, for he was convinced one of them may have the power to pass light, one that threatened to burn him. "It's just inside my head," he affirmed aloud. "No. No! There's no significance to any of this!" Not a shred of comfort came with the proclamation. The weight of everything, and the judgment, along with being under scrutiny, made him crack. "I didn't ask for any of this! To be born this way! Into this place!" The emotion was relentless, consuming him, warping and threatening to destroy any coherent thought of his own. Invisible shadowy hands of Hades gripped his body, threatening to pull him down into the depths. Then it all culminated, feeling himself fall into an abyss, grasping at air while wreathed in a maelstrom of lunacy, an onslaught of uncontrollable existentially terrifying thoughts flooding his mind. Boiling blood coursed through his veins. It felt like his whole body was on fire. His breath felt labored, forced as if it took a conscious effort, and ineffective in that he couldn't get any vitality from the inhale. He wondered why what he did even mattered when nothing did. But something in him told him otherwise. His eyes ricocheted around the room, looking for a way out, until they rested on the door. Another eruption of laughter from beyond. It felt like he was being ripped apart, waiting to be completely mauled, while being mocked, and ridiculed. He gripped his hands around his head with his horns poking between his fingers. "No. I will be free." Something delivered an emotion to him, saying that his fate was already sealed, and had already been written. This further perpetuated his confusion and madness. "NO! I control my fate!" Dilate yearned for vacuity, something he occasionally had under the influence, his current emptiness was acting as a vessel of a torrent of feelings he didn't know how to begin to understand, but he felt that just one drink would deliver him from his torment. The pain had made a quick resurgence, becoming a focal point of his attention whether he liked it or not. But it didn't distract from the assault of emotions. His channeled anger which motivated his rebellion had broadened, prompting him to look up. "What role am I in YOUR PLAY!? What am I supposed to LEARN?!" No response came, except for a continued mocking within, which to an extent, he actually agreed with, scorning himself as foolish with a shake of his head. But his resentment had to go somewhere. Tremors racked his body, whimpers passed his lips and though his arm was on fire gripping bone, an unpleasant coldness spread. Any semblance of thoughts he had ceased as fear filled him, his primal instinct lighting a fire under his feet with the approaching possibility of passing a threshold of darkness which could not be returned from. His legs wobbled as he stood, and he stumbled to the door. He caught himself on the door, his right hand gripping the doorknob. His hand shook as he stood at the door, gripping the doorknob with everything he had. The seconds coagulated into one moment, one feeling. The door opened, and Dilate stumbled down the hallway, toward a chaotic blur. He reached the casino floor, with ponies around in sumptuous attire, from suits and dresses alike, but they all had something in common. Each pony wore a mask, many with holes of shadow where the eyes would be, all with grins etched on. The masks concealed their true nature, intentions, and identity, allowing them to evade consequence. But there was a thread of darkness– an undertow revealed by the masks, allowing shunned or repressed aspects to manifest or even for it to possess. What normally would be an equalizing of the hierarchy of social status' was upside down, a facade. The intention he had for the party was enjoying the freedom of anonymity, freedom of words spoken without direct judgment, which under different circumstances could facilitate ponies to find the truth. But the truth isn't what they sought. Instead, he could see the underlying animalistic tendencies simply in their behavior, in a trance, like denizens of chaos waiting to commit joyful destruction for some meager entertainment. Their hollowed eyes stared at him as the laughing intensified. He rushed through the crowd, pushing through the chaos, his focus honed on the island despite garnering some attention. The attention led to some ponies parting a way for him, but as he got closer to the heart of the casino, the ponies' height was nearly up to his chest, prompting him to lift his arms up like he was trudging through a muddy swamp. The bar within sight, he pushed through one last bunch of ponies, not even noticing the lack of physical masks and made his way behind the bar. "Dilate?" The satyr in question jerked his head to the source of the voice, seeing in the crowd a stallion with a suit and slicked back mane, with a cigar in his muzzle. His instinct incentivized him to lash out, but thoughts of a coherent nature managed to surface through his cloud of primitive panic. "What are you doing here?" "I've heard you aren't doing well, and I've come to check on you." Glean sat on the stool on the other side, his cigar emitting a strand of smoke into the air. "What are your symptoms?" "Pain." "And?" He asked, smoke expelled through his mouth and nostrils. "I can't help you if you're not specific." "My blood is boiling. My heart is burning." He raised a brow. "Is that all? Do you want some vasodilators? Or perhaps, you're hungover. A bit of a drink would help," he said, the ring of fire at the end of his cigar brightening and moving toward him, leaving a cylinder of ash. Dilate stared at him with knitted brows. There was an elongated pause then Dilate averted his gaze to the various wine bottles on the wall behind him. He grabbed one, and placed a wine glass on the table between them. The crimson liquid poured from the bottle, initially crashing like a wave then swirling in its transparent confines. It eventually stopped halfway, and Dilate set the bottle down with a thud, their gazes meeting. Glean tilted his head, bouncing it once in amusement, a puff of smoke expelled from his lips. "What inspired this change of heart?" The commotion behind Glean was a violent blur, but both paid no attention to the escalating chaos, with bottles flying across the room, ribbons of alcohol tracing squiggles through the air from ponies' grasp like marionette ballerinas dancing. "What motivates you?" Dilate finally replied. "A ravenous hunger? A greed that cannot be satiated? Are you unfulfilled?" "Unfulfilled," Glean parroted. He studied Dilate for a few moments, staring into his soul. "Power moves," he conceded, "Power heals." "It will all fall apart. Everything does." "Instinct, the things that keep you alive, they're a powerful thing. Some of those things never change." Glean smirked, extending a hoof and pulling the drink in front of him. He lifted the glass and brought it to his lips, the red liquid slowly disappearing. The wine now gone, he slid it forward in front of Dilate, the glass waiting to be filled. Dilate stared at it for a few moments, then grabbed the wine bottle, examining it. He gave a smirk of his own with a chuckle. He took his hand and began to unwrap the bandage, until it was a long and crimson stained slender cloth. "What are you doing?" Glean asked, looking perplexed. He tied a knot and pushed the end of it down the bottle with a finger. "A rigged game isn't very fun now, is it?" Dilate climbed onto the bar table. "To all of our beloved guests, to all driven by animalistic impulse, destructive play, and instinctual pleasure seeking, which we have so magnificently facilitated, I have come to say the party– and all good things, must come to an end." His eyes searched the chaos, meeting a cerise pair that captivated his attention. Silvertray's lips opened, and Dilate smiled and nodded. "You're being irrational," Glean spat. "Bordering psychosis. With these delusions of granduer you've crafted a fantasy. Reality doesn't revolve around you. Wake up." "And yet," Dilate snatched the cigar from Glean's muzzle, "you're somehow more asleep," he replied, the cigar's burning end placed against the bandages. Flames climbed the bandages, and Dilate in a rushed gait made his way to the door behind the bar.  "Stop! You fool!" Glean shouted. Opening the door, a large parched tree with sparse leaves among its dying branches was revealed. Dilate threw the bottle with all he had at the tree near its roots, an explosion of glass and flames erupted. The flames spread and climbed the tree, and Dilate blew air from his burning lungs, aiding however he could in the fire's quest.  Screams and yells filled the room, ponies scrambled and funneled toward the exit. It wasn't long before the fire climbed to the branches, swelling beyond and touching the ceiling. Falling branches hit the bar and places around it, using shattered bottles and the alcohol on the carpet as fuel.  The flames roared as they had spread all throughout the room, consuming, and destroying all that it touched. Dilate sauntered out from the bar expecting emptiness and flames when his eyes met Glean's who were consumed in his own ire. The two stood glaring at each other like effigies, the raging inferno spreading and swelling, the brightness and aura of the flames distorting yet revealing. Fiery leaves fell, transforming into ashes with an orange glow like fireflies just before they hit the ground. A smile crept onto Dilate's lips as he made a show of his hands at his sides in a presenting gesture, as if awaiting to feel the burning rain touch them. Glean's furrowed brows deepened. Turning flank on Dilate, he sauntered away through the surrounding fire. The distortion of the flames muddied his appearance as he shrunk before disappearing like a mirage. Dilate dropped to his knees, then fell to his side in a fetal position. His body felt drained, lacking any vigor, torn apart, and mangled, while his body clung to life. He shivered uncontrollably, the surrounding inferno unable to bring any warmth to his body. The ultimate choice presented itself to him, and he didn't have a resolute answer, but his inaction sufficed. He awaited his known and unknown fate, condemned in an oven of painful all-consuming flames that crawled closer to him. But maybe he would finally be free. The floor cracked and a rumble sounded, a thought occurring to him as a smile adorned his features. Then he started to laugh as if he was told the funniest irony, being the butt of an existential joke. But in his cackling, it devolved into a coughing fit. He laid a bloodied hand over his drumming burning heart with a smile, until it fell away upon another thought surfacing. Pain is necessary. Dark edges formed in his vision that drowned the crawling flames, both slowly closing in. But despite his fading mind, his flesh was biten by the flames surrounding him expelling a groan as his instincts moved him. The flames then surrounded him with no escape, further nailing his coffin, but the pain they caused made his body writhe, preventing him from falling unconscious. Then his eyes finally closed, but one last whimper expelled from him when the flames grabbed him, furred flesh searing. A muffled shout managed to pass through the roaring inferno, evoking a glint from the seed inside Dilate. The floor collapsed.