It’s been tough these past year, or so. Things just don't seem to be going my way. Every single pony I've come across since that charade has just been treating me as a laughing stock. No surprise there, really, it's not like my past was full of happiness and laughter. I mean, I don't even know when ponies seemed to have this... almost complete hatred of me. It seems like it lasted as long as I've lived. I think the first time I could remember it happening was when I first got interested in magic. Goodness knows exactly when that was, but I know it was near or sometime during kindergarten. All the ponies there had the exact same ambitions, wanting to be fabulous in magic; a merit that can only be held by unicorns. I seemed to take a bit further, though. I wanted to be the star of a show, the one that would make audiences hundreds of thousands large gasp in awe at my amazing magical talent!
Both of my parents were unicorns, which isn't really a surprise. I only know a few ponies in this entire country that have parents that are a different kind than what they are. Though, it seemed as though my father was very against me parading around my magical talent, as if I shouldn't be proud of who I am. It seemed to be the same conversation every single day during my youth. “But dad!” I'd say. I don't know what his problem was. He seemed to flat out despise any kind of magic I'd do, if it was done in a style I liked. It was either “Keep that racquet down!” or “Why don't you do something productive?”
It went overboard when I reached about 5 when my father burst into my room, looking extremely angry. Previously, I had decided to do what you would expect a 5 year old filly to do; have a little magic show with her own toys. Only I decided to do it in the front room, whilst my father was at work. My mother didn't seemed fussed at me putting on this show, leaving it to typical filly behaviour. That is, until I accidentally broke one of my father's trophies. Obviously, I instantly regretted it and quickly headed up to my room with my toys. I hurried to find my super glue to try and get the broken statue back together. Father won it some years ago in a sports tournament. I can't remember exactly what it was exactly, details like that seem fuzzy nowadays. As I delicately tried to re-construct the statue, I had a big batch of fear enter my mind. 'How would my father react to this?' was the main question going through my mind at this point. As I placed the trophy back into the cabinet, I quickly rushed upstairs. Seconds later, my father walked in. He quickly saw something was amiss. He looked at the statue on the cabinet and saw the wet glue and broken pieces. Then, I heard hoofsteps coming up the stairs. I feared the worst.
“What did you do my statue?!” My father's voice was booming and as serious as can be. I couldn't think of what to reply with. I just laid on my bed, completely silent. My father slapped me a few times with his hoof. It was clear that the thing I broke was something extremely important to him. After a while, he started to leave my room, before turning to me and saying these words; “If I EVER see you doing that magic crap again, you'll be OUT of this house. You got that, miss?” I just slowly nodded as he slammed my room door shut. I couldn't sleep that night, all I could do was cuddle up to my inanimate audience, crying for hours and hours. One of the only passions I've had up to this point has been completely destroyed by my father. 'It's just not fair' was all I was thinking.
Everyday at elementary school was either a case of very good, or completely horrible. Either everypony would gather around me at recess to check out what kind of awesome magic tricks I had on me. Or all the ponies would laugh at the amount of fuss I was making about a talent that hadn't earned my cutie mark yet. Pathetic.
I think I got my cutie mark at about 7. I was in the middle in terms of getting my cutie mark; wasn't first, wasn't the last, just in the middle. My parents weren't really enthusiastic about my cutie mark, my father more so. He was still against my obsession with magic, but slowly started to accept it, as much as it hurt him. I still struggle to understand why a unicorn would have a hatred of magic. Maybe it's just a hatred of my kind of magic? I don't know.
One day in elementary stood out to me, though. I was about 9 and I was performing another one of my recess magic performances, only this time some of the teachers decided to watch my performance. I can't remember exactly what I was trying to do to entertain the audience, but all I know is that it managed to get me in a massive amount of trouble. Some of the children were in hospital, because I messed up on one part. I think one of them died a few days later too. Let's just say that my father had enough after that incident. “That is the last straw, Trixie! I had just about enough of this magic bullshit! Go back home, pack your things and DON'T. EVER. COME. BACK!”
So that was what I did. With more tears in my eyes than ever before, I packed as much as I could. My teddies, my costume and my favourite book; The Stories of Star Swirl the Bearded. I got it for my fourth birthday from one of my best friends. You can imagine the smile on my face when I got it. I must have read it at least 100 times, maybe more. I finished packing, said my goodbyes and heading out. That final door slam felt the loudest I had ever heard, because I knew from the moment on that I would never be able to return. I mean, what was the point in trying when my father was so against my type of magic ever since I started doing it? The new challenge for me was trying to find somewhere to stay. For the night? Or two? Or twenty?
Living on the streets was very hard for a young pony like me. You might think it's absurd for a filly as young as I was to be kicked out of home, never to return, but my father was both loud and serious about it. I tried to return a day later, in the vain hope that my father would try again and try again at trying to raise me the way a father should. But alas, upon the door opening, I saw my father, who immediately slammed the door on me. I knocked again, only to hear a faint “Get lost!” from inside of the house. Never before had I felt so unloved.
The first day of homelessness was probably the one where the depression really kicked in. I had lumbered my luggage with me while on the streets, going from door to door in each shop, hoping somepony would give a filly like me some food and drink to keep me healthy, but nopony was feeling generous it seemed. As the night started to rise, I found a bench in a nearby park that wasn't occupied at all. It had started raining at this point, but I didn't feel like sleeping on the floor. I had gotten up onto the wet and cold bench, grasped onto my suitcase tight and slowly began to close my eyes, when I was awoke by a booming voice.
“Oi! Get offa that bench!” I quickly got off and ran far away. Turns out it was a guard at the park, which had some kind of 'no sleeping on benches' rule. So, to recap, my first day of being homeless; I was wet, cold, tired, hungry and thirsty.
This would only be the beginning...