//------------------------------//
// Chapter 3 
// Story: Left and Leaving 
// by Indie Cred 
//------------------------------//

I’ve been sitting here alone for hours now. The guests have all gone, leaving me alone in the room with her casket. The lid is closed, and all I want is one more look at her face, but I can’t bring myself to open the lid.

I get up and move over to a nearby table covered with food and drink. The thought sickened me, everyone eating and drinking, chatting away with each other. It seems… Disrespectful. But it’s just us now, and we were never ones for much formality anyways. I pour myself a generous helping of whiskey, and sit down in the front row, close to the casket.

I’ve never been one for drinking, I prefer to keep my wits about me. Today though, I don’t really care. There’s nobody here to judge me, and I just want to feel something else. I take a large sip and the bitter taste causes me to make a face. Another pain in my heart.

She always laughed when I made that face. Nimble was far more adventurous than I ever was, and loved trying new things. She generally brought me along, saying I needed to “broaden my horizons”. That usually meant I was going to try some strange new food, which I invariably would hate. I never said no though. I would always take a bite, and I’d end up making that same face every time. I’m pretty sure she did that just so I’d make the face for her. I finish the rest of my drink and grimace.

Again, the anger rises in my chest, and without thinking I throw the empty glass at the casket.

“You promised me! You said you’d be back on Sunday!”

I put my head in my hooves and stared at the floor.

“You never break your promises…”

After we had graduated from our respective schools, we were never apart for long. We moved back to Manehattan and got a small apartment in an older district. It was large enough for the two of us and my studio, but small enough that it felt cozy. Nimble applied to be a local weather pony, and I began working on getting recognized in the art community.

At first, things were difficult. I spend days alone in my studio, working furiously on paintings, trying to find something new, something that hadn’t already been done. For the first year Nimble was the only one of us to bring home any pay. We lived day to day, barely scraping by, but we were happy.

I often became so involved in my painting that I would forget to eat, but Nimble was always there to make sure I got something in me. She was the only thing that could break me away from my art. The world could have ended and I’d never have noticed, but when she opened the door I always looked up at her. I’m almost certain that if she hadn’t been there for me, they would have found me starved, slumped over my easel.

Finally, my work began to sell. I began bringing in a modest amount, but to us it was a fortune. We had survived for so long on her pay alone that any extra income seemed like untold riches. I began hiding away some of the money I made from selling my work, keeping it in an old paint pail on my bookshelf. As I became more successful in my art sales, Nimble was able to cut back on her shifts a bit, allowing us more time together. Everything was going smoothly.

I never told her about the extra money I had squirreled away, even when things began to get tight for us. When she broke her leg, we found ourselves almost completely bankrupt. If it weren’t for her workers compensation we would have lost the apartment, but still I kept the money a secret. I had plans, and didn’t want to ruin the surprise.

“Is everything alright in here? I heard something break.” A voice called from behind.

“Everything’s fine. I dropped a glass. I’ll clean it up later.” I replied, not bothering to turn around.

I wait until I hear the hoofsteps moving away before I get up. I walk back over to the table and take the bottle, returning to my seat. Another swig, another face she would have loved.

I feel like I’m the only one who cares she’s gone. I’m the only one still left here. I won’t leave you. You didn’t leave me, at least not on purpose.

An accident, they called it. An unfortunate turn of events. Whatever they call it, it’s all the same thing. Someone screwed up and it cost her life.

They didn’t tell me who was responsible, most likely for that pony’s safety. All I know is Nimble went out to deal with a storm that had gotten out of control. Some new weather pony still being trained up managed to turn it into a hailstorm. Nimble was working on getting things under control when she was hit by a hailstone. She was knocked unconscious midair, but because of the low visibility they couldn’t catch her in time. By the time they found her, she was already gone. The doc said there was no pain. She was limp when she hit the ground.

I begin to shake, sick to my stomach. The mental image of her falling, alone. Hitting the ground. It replays in my mind until I can’t stand it anymore.

I stand up and move to the casket, reaching unsurely towards the lid. Holding my breath, I open it, revealing her body.

She looks perfect, as if nothing had happened. If you didn’t know what had happened, you’d have thought she was sleeping.

I reach out to touch her, but hesitate. I swear I can see her chest rise and fall slightly, as if in a deep slumber. I blink my eyes and it’s gone. A cruel trick played on me by my emotions and the alcohol.

I miss her touch. I miss feeling her next to me in bed, a reassuring weight by my side, her warmth that seemed to fill the room. I gently stroke her mane, exactly how I did every morning to wake her up. I half expect to see her open her eyes, that little smile on her face.

“Why not brush it while you’re at it?” Same routine every morning, and yet it always made me chuckle.