Short Scraps and Explosions

by shortskirtsandexplosions


Silent Ponyville: Doorwalker

Hoo boy. This one. I quite easily consider this one fic to be the best story I never wrote. And yet, the first chapter of it exists.

There's a crazy history to this one.

Around January of 2012, I abandoned End of Ponies. There's no better way to say it; I ditched the fanfic in frustration of how lame my attempt at a new arc had turned out. The suspended nature of End of Ponies has since continued to be an ongoing thorn in my side. As awesome a success as Background Pony has been, I still can't call 2012 as good a year as 2011, because I feel with each passing month an aching stab of guilt in my gut over what I've left to marinate within the forsaken vacuoles of the Internet.

However, back in early 2012, I didn't know EoP would be suspended for so long. I figured it was just a momentary lapse in writing, and so I chilled for a month and wrote next to nothing. And when I say "next to nothing," I really mean I wrote Spelling It Out and then floundered between botched writing ideas until I realized I was no better than a one-trick-pony. I would eventually return to EoP, fail AGAIN, and produce an accident called "Background Pony" during one night of intense frustration. The rest is history. F'naaa.

But I didn't fall in love with Lyra overnight. It was a gradual thing, a mint-green venom that seeped into my veins.

It all started when someone on Steam was like, "Hey, man, this really talented art guy totally digs your stuff and livestreams audio reads of your fanfic." And me, always adoring any excuse to masturbatorily relieve my ego, got hooked up with this dude, who turned out to be the massively talented and sexily voiced Spotlight, also known as the artist behind Background Pony's cover art and the genius behind some Appledash shenanigans. Spotty had himself a tight network of marsupials, among which was none other than Jake Heritagu, author of the immensely popular Silent Ponyville fanfic series.

At some point, Spotty played an audio read of Jake's first fanfic in livestream, and me--being the usual egotistical bastard--could only contemplate how I might be able to show off my digital phallus across the Internet to rustle the jimmies of this finely talented young lemur who somehow had way more goddam fanart than me. So, my brain immediately went into steampunk mode, riveting together possible side-fic ideas that might blend well with the universe Jake had created. I happen to have had joyous romps in the Silent Hill experience in the past, and I severely uphold Silent Hill 2 as the pinnacle of survivor horror. With that in mind, I tried to imagine a ponified Silent Hill scenario that could emulate the James Sunderland story. Clearly, this needed a romantic pair to mimic the James/Mary dynamic. And just who in Ponyville could possibly match that?

It must be understood, I had never ever given Lyra a second glance in all of my poni poni poni obsessing prior to this. I simply knew that the fanon had this thing for her and Bon Bon, and that they were often paired together in tons of fics. Suddenly, though, my mind was concocting this idea for Lyra--the unicorn of the couple--to be caught in a Sillent Hill situation where her gift of magic is not only a tool of survivor but some gimmicky means of narration.

It took a few weeks, but I finally got the courage to try writing an initial chapter. I went for a long walk, jacked myself up on Dr. Pepper, came home, sat down at the computer, started writing, and didn't stop until about eight hours later. The result is what takes up the rest of this document. I tossed myself online, hunted down Jake Heritagu, and spammed him with a Gdocs link going "Wut do j00 think of d1s, lulz." I think his reaction was conveyed in multiple four letter words. He was quite evidently impressed, perhaps even flattered. I asked him if there was a way that I could not only be allowed to upload the story set within his fanfictional universe, but if there was any possibility of doing it with his blessing of "canonization." He was game for it, but a lot of details had to be hammered out. It so happened that we had an opportunity to do just that the next day, because we were both heading to Megacon.

So it was that I arranged myself to meet a relatively random brony in real life for the first time. I met Jake Heritagu in person. He was pleasant, creative, full of ideas; I tried to ignore the kid-sized pink pony backpack hanging off his shoulders while giant robots, samurai soldiers, and female Deadpools sashayed all around us. We must have spent two hours standing there, engulfed in sweatified pop culture, bro-fisting random passerbies in Fluttershy shirts while rambling to each other the convoluted plans of our fanfics in extreme, testosteronical detail. He told me secrets about Silent Ponyville that I keep mum about to this day. I mentioned random EoP things and gawked at obese Zelda cosplayers. Eventually, we talked our lungs out, saluted, and walked our separate ways into the huge convention of extreme body odor. It was a nifty experience, and chatting with him helped me lay the mental groundwork for how my idea, "Doorwalker," was to shape itself to his future plans for the Silent Ponyville series.

There ended up being a problem, though. He never finished the series. Even today, it would seem, the fic is experiencing a Crisis of Infinite Apathies as he seeks to find an author willing to assist him in completing the vision. In the meanwhile, from a combination of literary delay and personal laziness, I never wrote beyond the first initial chapter that I layed across his table like a porn star at a job interview.

Still, the impact it had on my fanfictional... career thingy was undeniable. The ego-rush I got from apparently impressing him made me exalt the character of Lyra. In a time when EoP was entering into its long drought, Lyra symbolized for me a ponified muse. I fell in love with her character, the goofy fanon take on her, how joyful and ecstatic she appeared all the time. Though I could never follow through with "Doorwalker," I felt desperate to write a story regarding the subject of my obsession--any story. This led to a few failed writing attempts until I got into a conversation one day with Spotlight, in which he bluntly claimed that there was nothing special to the character of Lyra aside from her relationship with Bon Bon or the fanon ideas of her human/hands obsession. Wanting to defend the new best poni poni, I wracked my brain and recalled some ancient story idea I heard about an obscure X-Men character whose power was that everybody forgot her within minutes of striking up a conversation. I took that, amplified it, and centered it upon a mint-green unicorn who needed to evolve beyond Internet stereotypes, and another train wreck of a fanfic was born.

As for Doorwalkers, it's no walk in the park. If I ever wrote it in its entirety, not only would it be rated M, but it would feature a lot of foul language, intense exploration of sociopathic concepts, a brutal characterization/mutilization of Lyra, and a highly experimental writing style that no self-respecting editor would ever give a green light. The essential concept is that the story is being told through a broadcast, like a "found footage" film such as Cloverfield or Blair Witch Project. Lyra was suffering from some sort of magical ailment and required a prosthetic be placed over her horn that suppressed her mana-conjuring as well as simultaneously monitored everything she said or did. As a result, everything is in present tense and is more focused on capturing thoughts and sensations as opposed to being grammatically accurate. It would have been a miracle if it ever made it to Equestria Daily.

The fact that the story never made it off the ground is of very little concern to me now. Jake's story fell into obscurity, and what exists of Doorwalker does not take into account what Jake had planned for his latest installment--which is important because Doorwalker is supposed to take place after SP3. However, some of the most basic elements of the fic spiritually influenced the overall plot structure of Background Pony. So, in a way, it can be said that the fics are conjoined twins, only one of them had to be euthanized to save the other.

Whew. And on that note, have some rusted shiet and locked doors.


Silent Ponyville: Doorwalker
Chapter One
by shortskirtsandexplosions
based on the fanfiction series by Jake Heritagu

From the Records Office of the Foalsom Prison for Deranged Ponies

To the Royal Canterlotlian Supernatural Investigation Agency

Enclosed in this requested shipment is the arcanium alicornia once attached to the subject of Cell 3A who, as of August 12, 1002 of the Third Age, inexplicably vanished from Foalsom Prison along with the occupant of Cell 3D. The material contained within has been thoroughly reviewed by the higher unicorn members of Foalsom staff, and it is our firm belief that this information may shed some light on the recent deaths of Octavia and the other members of the Royal Canterlotlian Orchestra. Furthermore, the subject’s mental records provide details that elaborate even more on Her Majesty’s description of the “Dead Alicorn Dream”.

It is imperative that you supply Princess Celestia with this information at once. We can only regret that it has taken us this long to unlock the magical data that was previously obscured. Hopefully, if this information can help us at all, it can prevent even more deaths related to the Elements of Harmony than what has already been sustained. If the wave of suffering that’s struck Ponyville over the last three and a half months is of any indication, then all of Equestria--if not the Alicorns’ sacred lineage--is at stake.

Please handle these recordings with care. The information decays upon each subsequent perusal, and we cannot afford to lose such valid evidence as what we have in our hooves. Also, for those of you assisting the wise Princess with her documentation, guard your leylines with great caution. We’ve already lost two of our finest physicians to the slings of madness.

Sincerely,
Doctor Iron Farrier of the Canterlotlian Unicorn Health Commission













































Light. Bright, flickering light. Fading in and out. Uneven. Black.





Wooden walls. Bookcases and more walls. Teetering. A glossy window. Sunlight. A unicorn says something. I pivot towards her. The light fades. Dizzy.





A lavender coat. Twilight's face evens out. She's smiling at me. It hurts.

“That's it. Just relax. Try to get your bearings and—”

“Everything's fuzzy.”

“You're doing fine. It takes a while to adjust to the magical channels filtering through the suppression field. Just breathe evenly and close your eyes for a bit.”

“Okay.”

I do what she suggests. Everything is dark. Everything should be dark.





“Okay, and... open your eyes now.”

The light returns. Bright. Still fuzzy. Twilight Sparkle is a purple blur in the middle of a sickly miasma. I don't remember the world being this heavy on my eyes. I hate this whole process already.

“I hate this already.”

“Just give it a chance, Lyra. We've come this far. This can only be good for you in the end. I promise.”

She's said that many times before.

“You've said that before.”

“Hehehe—Well, it's good to know that the suppression field hasn't affected your memory at all, now is it?” She smiles. It's a very easy thing for her to do. She shuffles up to me and tilts her head forward. “I don't think it'll hurt our little experiment any if I help your balance with a simple grounding spell. Here, don't move.”

Her horn starts glowing. My peripheral vision is encompassed in a violet glow as she seems to be concentrating on me with all her might. Several seconds pass. I'm gazing at the windows as she does this. Blue skies and white clouds. I feel exhausted. Sleepy.

Twilight finishes. “There we go. Feel any better?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Try and lift something with your magic.”

“Haven't we done that part already?”

“Yes, but now that I've got the recording channels affixed to your cranial alicornia, I want to be sure that they're not interfering at all with the suppression field.”

“Whatever. Just tell me what I need to do.”

She points to my left. “Try and lift the horse carving off the table.”

I look over towards the wooden effigy in question. It's a jagged, splintery affair. Twilight Sparkle's library is a beautiful interior, but the wooden horse carving is an insult. It's the ugliest thing in the room, and yet everytime I arrive for our regularly scheduled visits, I can't stop looking at it. I should be looking at her, listening to her. But it's hard. Harder than I think.

Wait, is she going to be “hearing” all of this later now that we've prepared this “recording” spell? Whatever. I'm exhausted. I think of my bed, but the ugly horse carving is in the way. I tilt my head towards it. My skull feels heavier, on account of what's attached to my horn. I concentrate very hard. Gnashing teeth and twitching neck muscles. My tongue curls, and usually something would be happening by now. The wooden horse carving doesn't budge a single inch.

“I can't move it. I think it's still working.”

“Splendid!” Twilight Sparkle beams. “At least we won't have a repeat of last session. Hehehe... I really can't afford to replace the windows twice in one month.” I can't understand why she's so excited. Perhaps she's pretending to be. She trots once more into sight and smiles in my face. Bright eyes. Happy, lavender dimples. I really wish she'd keep some distance. “As for the channeling spell, we won't know if it's recording anything until three months from now when we take the cap off of you.”

“Then all of this work could be a waste of time?”

“Now Lyra, what did we discuss about having a positive attitude?”

“Uhm... You said that it was the easy way to do things?”

“Er... No. Eheheh—If you remember from two sessions ago, we agreed that being positive was the first step in confronting our personal obstacles. Once we've rediscovered our confidence, then things become easy.”

“Oh. Yeah. I-I guess you're right.”

“But right now, let's test the channeling spell.”

“Isn't that what we're already doing?”

“Kind of. Remember, it'll record not only what your senses catch, but what your memory recalls. Whenever you think about something with invested emotion, the channeling spell will store the information within the replicated alicornia of the horn-cap. So why don't you give it a try and we'll later find out if it worked or not.”

“Uhm... How?”

“Hehehe... It's simple, Lyra. Just think about the first important memory that comes to mind. The channeling spell will do all the rest.”

“Okay...”

“Don't stress it. It should come naturally to you.”





Your eyes opened. Pearlescent blue sapphires. I was the first thing you saw that morning, and I knew it.

Your lips moved. You were trying to say something, but between the weight of sleep and the stretch of your smile, it came out as gibberish.

And I loved gibberish. I loved you. I leaned down and I met those lips with mine.

I wished I had never let go. I wished our kiss would have lasted forever. I wished that I could inhale your words everyday, from then on, and live off of nothing else.

You were my breath. My everything.





“Lyra? Did you think of something?”

“Y-Yeah...” Twilight's violet shadow is fuzzy again. My heard hurts. I could tell her this, but I don't. “I thought of something.”

“Good. Once you get used to the channeling spell, it should be easy to tell when you're using it and when you're not. I wouldn't be surprised if the recorded thoughts and sensations from the first few days is a bit disjointed, but I'm sure once you get acquainted with the whole process, we'll have proper feedback to examine later.”

“And you're sure this is going to help with the... therapy?”

“Lyra, think of this from an architectural point of view. Your old life is behind you, and now we're examining the blueprints of your current existence in order to help you establish a secure future. Unicorns have been doing this sort of experiment for years, and it almost always turns out beneficial for them. I have every bit of confidence that we'll get your magical abilities back, and you'll be returning to the concert hall where you're supposed to be, or—who knows? Perhaps you're destined for better things?”

She won't stop smiling. The fuzziness and the dizziness goes away. I can see dust particles scattered in the windowlight. I hear wood creaking in the foundations of the library. Everything in the world is slowly settling, slowly crumbling, slowly falling. To become better means to become nothing.

“Perhaps you're right.” Twilight Sparkle wants to help me so much. It would make her happy for me to feel better. It would make her even happier to impress her royal mentor with a successful experiment. “Thank you for all your effort.”

“Hey, it's our effort. We're in this together, Lyra.” I feel her hoof on my shoulder. It's so warm. Everything around me is so warm. “You're not alone. You have ponies here in Ponyville who care for you and want to be there for you. Even when it's not time for one of our sessions, don't hesitate to pay me a visit, drop by for tea, for chat—hehehe—whatever you feel like!”

“Thank you, Twilight.” I really just want to sleep. “I'll keep that in mind.” The stupid horse carving is staring at me. I hate it.

“Remember—with the new channeling spell and all—the key thing is to relax!” Twilight's Voice rings in my ears. I'm walking away from her. The bright red door looms. “The rest will come naturally.”

“Naturally, right.”

I open the door.





Glaring sunlight. Golden rays and chattering voices. Hooves and hooves and hooves. The ground is broken, muddy, brown. Ponyville can never be perfectly green. So many hoofprints. So many wandering bodies. Ponies move like boulders, though their voices are dipped in vanilla. I feel sick. So much mud and dirt. I wonder how many of them are looking at me. Do I look different now that the new spell's in effect? A gust of cold wind. Spring is too fickle: stale one minute and damnably fragrant the next. You always loved spring. I feel sick again. Two minutes until I'm home. Hoofprints and voices. Has it always been this bright? Two minutes. Two minutes. Two minutes.





The first thing I see is my lyre. Glistening, golded frame. Tiny, immaculate strings. It hangs from a nail beside the cupboard. I should move it.

I shut the door behind me. I'm cut off from spring and wind and voices. It's so gray in my house. The glint of light off the lyre is an insult. I really should move it, but I don't.

I walk across the house. For some reason, the echoes of my hooves startle me. I thought I was used to this emptiness. I blame Twilight Sparkle. She told me to think, and I thought of you. She should have known. They all should know. I'm a walking sideshow attraction by now. Even if I played the lyre again, everypony would only laugh at me.

Wait, should I be recording all of this? I know she's going to be reviewing these thoughts. Maybe not just her. How many other unicorns are bridging the gap between her and the Princess? How many more damnable ponies are going to be picking apart my brain, piece by piece, like it's a box of matches?

Have to relax. Have to concentrate. I've been eating a lot more lately. I hate myself for it. Mustn't do that. Just... water. Water is good. Water will work.

I trot into the bathroom. It's so cramped in here. I can't believe we ever shared it. I grab a glass and pour water from the faucet. I look up while I drink and wish I hadn't. The unicorn's turquoise cheeks are hollow. Her mane is short; I shaved it about a month ago. I was pretty bad off then. Just what am I now? Bloodshot eyes. Paling coat. Dry lips. And that cap—that cone. It's like a bulging anvil of black arcanium on the tip of my horn. They should have just put a noose around my neck.

No. Must relax. Must be calm. Twilight is a silly pony, but a smart pony. Besides, she's got it together. What have I got?

I drink the water. It's cool and refreshing. It works for a minute, and my reflection and I are once again drowning in a sea of sighs.

My eyes close.





Ow.

Ow.

Too cold. Shower water is too cold. Luna almighty. Am I late on the heating bill too?

Huh... I wonder if that will get recorded. Better turn this channeling off or else Twilight will see me bathing.

Warming... Warming up. Thank Celestia, I paid it on time.

Close my eyes and pretend to be nothing but the vapors.





Is it self-indulgent of me to sit by a warm fireplace after I've had a warm shower? I don't know if I'm asking myself this or asking Twilight or whoever-pony-else will be reviewing this.

The burning wood crackles beyond the hearth. I sit on the couch, my legs curled up beneath me, like you always used to do. The radio sits across from me in the living room. There's an issue of Equestria Daily lying on the floor. I used to love occupying my time with those things. Now, I can't stop staring at the fire. Flickering embers and gasping sparks. Why are the beautiful things always the dying things?

It's a warm fire, but this sofa is cold. Maybe that's why I turned the channeling on again. It's just like the shower, only it lasts forever. I think it's because I know this that I can't stop staring at the fire, that I can't stop trying to fool myself.

Come to think of it, I shouldn't be recording this at all. I'll be sleeping soon. I've got to be at the hospital early in the morning. Then groceries. Then bills. Then... this.

It's always this.

Close my eyes. I can handle the darkness.





Rising. Gasping. Pale moonlight.

I'm sweating. It's too cold to be sweating. My heart. My heart. Will I die?

It's not dark enough to sleep. But that's not it. I had turned over in my slumbers, and the bed felt so empty. I thought I'd be rolling down a silken mudslide for eternity, with nopony to catch me. Somewhere an owl is shrieking beyond my bedroom windows. I wonder if he knows the truth that I'm slowly sinking into. If I had as much wits as him, I'd be screaming too.

It's this house. This damnable house. It doesn't deserve my screams. It doesn't.

I roll over into my bedsheets. I nuzzle my neck past the sweat, past the folds, past the hours of tossing and turning and the perpetual ringing in my ears. I can never scream, not until everything is gone, because all of this still smells like you. I'm too afraid to shatter that, it'd feel like the earth giving way beneath me. I'd be rolling downhill forever. Perhaps that's what I have been doing. Perhaps that's what woke me.

I look at the clock. I hate it, but only because it hates me. Four hours until I officially wake up. I throw the sheets over my head to hide the moonlight, to hide the owl. I can't hide from you. Four hours. Four hours. Four hours.





Breakfast is a stiff, boring ritual. A bowl of oats and Equestria Daily. Each time I bite, I feel like a giant albatross is vomiting down my throat. I think I'd rather eat the newspaper.

That was almost funny. I think I'll record that.

Thirty minutes, and I'm out the door.





Muddy ground. Dew and mist. I must be crazy to be getting up this early. All the other ponies are crazier. I'm barely downtown, and already I hear over a dozen colorful equines greeting me. I think they go out of their way to greet me. I don't hear them talking to each other nearly as much. Then again, I hardly care. This damn arcanium cap weighs so much. There's no hiding it. I tilt my head towards the dirt as I count the trots it takes to get to the hospital. I think I like it more inside those cold, sterile halls than out in the open. Nopony talks to me in the hospital. They're too serious to pretend to be cheerful. It's a sobering sensation. I intend to record a lot of it.





Why is Nurse Red Heart smiling? Oh dear Celestia, not her too.

“Good morning, Lyra! I see you're doing rather well! Did Twilight already switch the cap out?”

“Yes. She did.”

There's a blissful bout of silence as I walk across the nurse's station and open the utility closet with my assigned key. Heart monitors are beeping in the background. The checkerboarded hallways beyond are flooded with hushed sounds. Gurneys and orderlies. Wheelchairs and clipboard sheets. Everypony is too afraid to talk above the sound of a falling bedpan. I rather like it here.

“You sure? It looks the same to me. Then again—heheh—I'm hardly the magic expert. It's a good thing we've got Princess Celestia's star pupil in the center of Ponyville to look after the magically-afflicted.”

“I guess...” I grab a toolbox, a bucket, and a hoofsaw. I balance them carefully on my flank and make for the distant edge of the hospital. “I'm sorry I wasn't here yesterday on account of my session and all. I'd better catch up while I can.”

“Oh, it's quite alright. You've done so much good work with the expansion, Lyra. We couldn't have received your help at a better time.”

“It's helping me as much as it's helping you, Nurse Red Heart. When I finally get this thing off my head, I'll be able to do the work three times as fast.”

“Oh? But I thought you'd be going back to the music hall once you're...” Her voice stops. She's probably realizing by now that she shouldn't have said anything out loud to begin with. She's really sweet, but she should stick to her patients.

“I really just... want to work on the bathrooms, Nurse Red Heart. I think I should have majored in interior design instead of minored when I graduated from Canterlot College. I can't get the same relaxation that I used to from music.”

“Very well, just don't overdo it. You're the only pony working in that wing of the hospital, after all.”

“And I kind of prefer it that way.” I trot down the cold, sterile hallways. The light grows dimmer and dimmer. The plastered walls are replaced with dry panels and plywood. I march over the yellow tape, and into organized chaos, smelling of sawdust and copper plumbing. Strange how this place feels more like home than home.

I place my toolbox onto the floor, grab the hoof-saw, and go to work.





This one stall is a real bitch.

No matter how many times I try to measure it, there's no finding a perfect way to rig it to the wall. I know that I've gotten the partitions right, but whoever laid the foundation of this expanded wing of Ponyville Hospital was drinking something extra special in his or her sarsaparilla.

It's funny how the unexpected labor falls on the shoulders of those who volunteer instead of those who get paid. Whatever. I don't care. Not even all the golden bits in Equestria could make me do something else right now.

Sliding across the cold, shiny tile, I get underneath the spot where the bathroom stall is going to be erected. I measure the space one more damn time. I should have it right by now. I can come up with a solution to this mess. I can.

I stand back up and reach for a marking tool. As I do so, I glance up above the bathroom sink. I see a mirror covered with tarp. Part of the dangling plastic has fallen away, and the exposed surface of the glass shows me, shows my baggy eyes, shows the pale coat that had shivered under a curtain of sweat in the dead thick of night. And that's what does it.

I think of you.

It's suddenly colder in here, just as cold as it was in the concert hall months ago when I made an entire room full of instruments collapse in on me. I should have died then. I should have died.

Whatever. I'm here. I'm alive. And this damn bathroom stall is screaming to be born. I slide back across the tile, away from the mirror, and mark the wall.





I shouldn't be grocery shopping. I'm hungry. It's never a good idea to shop for food while you're hungry. I can't afford to buy too much fruit. These disability checks won't last forever. After all, I'm going to be cured someday, right? Right?

“Oh Lyra, how marvelous it is to see you.”

Dear Celestia. Rarity. I see a pair of spiky pineapples on a vendor's shelf beneath me. I think they belong in my eyesockets right about now.

“Done with another day's worth of volunteering at the hospital?” She bats her painted eyelashes. The only other time I've seen a face like that was in the less savory streets of Manehattan. “I think it's quite exceptional what you're doing for Ponyville's refuge for the ill and weak. Tell me—what is it that you're working on there? An intensive care unit? A new operating room, perhaps, hmmm?”

“I'm installing the toilet stalls to a new bathroom.”

“Oh... Uhm... Well then...” She smiles nervously, backtrotting half a step as if I just announced I had the plague. “Any useful facility is a good facility, yes?” It's then that I realize she's not alone. Another pale shadow is standing beside here, about a third her size. The little filly is staring at something above my eyes. I can see where this is going.

“I didn't mean to interrupt anything.” Why is my bag so empty? I should have finished shopping by now. The sun is setting. There are too many ponies around. There are always too many ponies. “I'm just getting the fixings for a weekend's worth of meals...”

“Oh, on the contrary! It was I who interrupted you!” Rarity smiles. “Though, I assure you it was for a good reason. Ahem.” She leans forward with a charming smile, as if it's supposed to have an effect on me. “Have you heard about Pinkie Pie's party tomorrow night at Sugarcube Corner?”

“I'm afraid that you're going to have to be more specific, Miss Rarity.”

“Heeheehee—She's celebrating the return of Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash from their most recent trip to Fillydelphia. Word is that Ponyville's latest, happy couple is about to make a big announcement!”

“You don't say...” The little filly is still staring. Judging from her silken, curled mane-style, her family must be pretty rich. She should know better. So many ponies should know better. I realize Rarity is staring at me too right now, but in a different way. “I... really don't think I will be attending the party.”

“Oh? But we would love to have you, darling. You were always such a pleasure to be around, and with all that extended labor you've been doing at the hospital, surely you could afford yourself a little respite!”

“It looks like she's got a dry eraser on her head!” the little filly finally says what she's thinking.

“Sweetie Belle! Honestly! What did we discuss before we trotted over here—?!” Rarity pauses in the middle of chiding her young companion in order to chide herself with a heavy grimace. “Erm... Anyways, do think about it, Miss Lyra. We would be ever so blessed by your presence.”

“Yeah. I'll think about it.” I won't.

“Very well then! A pleasant evening to you!” Rarity smiles at me, and all but bites the filly's ear off her skull as she escorts her away in a fierce canter. “We need to have a talk!”

“But sis! It's so funny looking—”

“Not another word! I swear, mother and father knew better than to raise a blabbermouth!”

They fade away into the bleeding sunset. It's the first time I've felt calm all day. I forget how hungry I am. Perhaps that's a good thing. I finish my purchase and trot the dull, crimson way home.





Twenty bits spent on meals, and I don't make myself a single bite to eat. The warm shower and fireplace isn't helping either. I don't even know why I'm recording this. If anything, I can at least prove that Twilight was right. It is getting easier to switch the channel on and off. I just wish I could predict when I really need it.

Perhaps now is such a time. My lyre isn't hanging from the hook. It's in my hooves. Cold and smooth. Curved and shiny. It fits perfectly into the crook of my hooves, but it never used to be like this.

It used to float. It used to dance in the sunlight. The cool drizzle of afternoon rain used to bathe it, used to bathe us, when I played it for you with the natural ease of my telekinesis. You would giggle and laugh. You would tell me that I was being lazy. I told you that all artists are lazy, for true genius is like lying in the womb and being fed your muse. Now, with this stupid cap on my horn, I struggle to hold this thing in my hooves and all I can think of is lying in your embrace instead.

The sofa is a poor substitute. The crackling fireplace is nothing like your humming voice. I reach a shaky hoof into the forest of strings stretched before me and all that comes out is dissonant nonsense. Where is my audience? Where is the pair of pearlescent blue eyes that shimmered in the aura of my magical instrumentation?

The moonlight wafting through my living room windows is pale. There is nothing for it to bounce off of. Nothing but me and the vibrating strings as I pluck my numb hooves through the cold bands like a foal trying to walk for the first time. These hooves are worthless. I should have practiced playing this way long ago. I could have practiced playing like this, but not any longer.

You're not here to listen to me. I cannot make music without you. I can only make sobs.

It always begins like this. Cold as knives, hot as lava. The tears pierce my eyelids like an infant bird clawing its way out of the shell. So many nights. So much cold sweat. I know it's only been half a year, but the baptism hasn't stopped. The only true sign of progress is that it happens three times a week instead of seven times. You wouldn't know this unicorn. You would hardly even recognize her.

I can only wonder, can only hope, that you would have loved her.

And now I'm at the point of no return. I curl into myself. The fuzzy gray living room is expanding. The fireplace is a million miles away, racing off and trying to find you in the darkness. I wish I was running along with it. Instead, I am stuck here, drowning in the echoes of my own sobs, wishing your voice was suffocating me instead.





I wake up and my hooves aren't mine. I can never explain it. I hate myself sometimes.

Daylight is too bright. I think Princess Celestia is a masochist. I may be miserable, but I'd never drown myself in infinite sunlight.

Damn, my hooves ache. I need a bath before I do anything today.





My muscles ache, but this time it is a good ache. I stretch and I heave and I finally slap the first of several toilet stalls into place. The cold sarcophagus of the partially-constructed hospital wing engulfs me as I engulf myself in my job. I take a step back and watch—under a victorious sheen of sweat—as a freshly erected partition stands before me. I think I may have made the doorframe a little too low, but I always preferred that anyways. There's nothing I hate more when I'm in a toilet stall than seeing the hooves of users on either side of me.

I should get to work on the next few stalls. I realize I'm taking a long time to set things up. It hardly matters. That's the great thing about volunteering; I get to create perfection in my own time.

And then I remember my regularly scheduled session with Twilight is in an hour, and I sigh again.





“But are they all sad thoughts?” Twilight asks. Her face is long. Her violet eyes are soft and warm and inviting. The library is like a bright torch around her. Lanterns glimmer and wood varnish shines. Her little dragon is nowhere to be found. I'm fine with that. His voice annoys me. “That is to say, do they only serve to make you feel lonesome?”

“They make me feel like a lot of things, Twilight. They are what they are. Lone strolls through the park. Picnics by the lake. Our favorite spot on the bridge where we stopped to chat and stare at the babbling brook. In the evening time, in summer, just before sunset, we'd sit out in the grass outside our house and watch ponies walk by on their way home. I think we did it not just because we were happy, but because we were proud. We wanted everypony to see us... to see us so blissful, and it delighted us to see smiles on their faces as they passed by. Do you suppose that's arrogant?”

Twilight shakes her head, her lavender lips curved. “I was one of those ponies who would walk by, Lyra. Seeing you two made me happy. I had long dreamed—and still do—that I too could be so happy sometime with a special somepony, studies permitting, of course. Heeheehee...”

“I've always thought that happiness is something you get not by searching for it. If you spend so much time looking, you get caught up in the pretense, and then the cheerfulness you finally do achieve is nothing but a pretensive facade.”

“Very eloquently put, Lyra. But is true happiness something that can be so logically compartmentalized? Never mind what you thought or still think. What about how you feel?”

“What's the difference?”

“Well, the difference—if I may be so bold to suggest—is that you were once a unicorn who wasn't afraid to feel, and ever since that one day in the concert hall when your telekinetic powers went haywire, you've relied on cold logic and unemotional thoughts to govern yourself. Never mind the suppression cap on your horn, Lyra. I think this new 'you' is what's keeping you from truly expressing yourself.”

I sigh. There's not enough oxygen in the world to weather these sessions. I feel fine. I have been feeling fine. The long nights and tears are just a side effect of existence. I know that now. I wonder if Twilight ever will.

“Just what do you want from me?”

“What I want is not important, Lyra. I'm just your magical therapist.” She smiles and leans on the edge of her pillow seat. The wooden room is like a cold box, trapping me with her grin. “And I think you've gone on for long enough thinking. Just how do you feel, Lyra?”

I gaze at her. If only my eyes could tell her everything. This might have shattered her less.

“I feel like she's never really left me...”





I feel like you're still there. You're around the corner in the hallway. You're just behind the bedroom door. You're standing at the far side of the kitchen and on the other side of the sofa. Every time I try to get to you, you trot away and giggle in silence. You think this is a game, and I do not blame you for it. There is as much innocence in death as there is before birth. Life makes infants and corpses of us all.

When I'm in the marketplace, you're right there beside me, laughing at the types of vegetables I pour into my bag. You try to outpace my hooftrots on the way to the hospital. I've always had a larger gait than you, and it amused us both to no ends every time you've tried to deny it.

In the hospital, as I work alone on the latest, lone construction project, it is then that I feel the contours of your sad frown matching the grayness of those desolate walls. You know what I know: that I should be performing music. It cannot be helped. If I take this cap off, I'll send another ceiling flying off its foundation. I could even hurt ponies, and neither of us would want that.

I know that it's for your sake that I leave the lyre hanging on the wall, so that it's there in open sight every time I walk in through the door, just like you would be. It is also a broken and dead thing, like my hooves are—or should be, for they're all I have now. All the magic is gone, as well as all the joy. I know this. I can conclude this and accept this in an instant, but it wouldn't make a difference. So long as you're around me, in some effluent shadow of the past or another, I know that the truth is not just for me to realize, but for you to realize as well.

I can only hope that someday...




“Someday she will learn, as I have learned, that life is far too short to afford precious things.” I shrug. This is as real as anything I've ever sweated or sobbed to in bed. The Ponyville library is merely a vessel for the unbreakable epitaphs of time. “Until then, I can feel whatever I want to feel. But, to think of anything else but her, is but a dream... until the very fragments of that dream can be swept away, along with her. I know more than anypony that this will take time. A nightmare is only a nightmare as soon as you wake up from it, and I'm trying very hard—Twilight—but I'm afraid that my eyes are still closed. I'm living this world asleep. I don't know what it will take to wake me up, but I'm glad that you're willing to help.”

I haven't realized how long I've been talking until I see the last of several tears streaking halfway down Twilight's face. She sniffles, her face contorting. I can see how professional she's trying to be. I realize that this is as much a journey for her as it is for me. If I had any self-respect, I would have hired a psychiatric expert from Canterlot months ago instead of her, but that's assuming I ever really wanted to be cured.

She reaches forward and plants a lavender hoof gently on my shoulder, smiling at me. The gesture is as artificial as her tears; she's just too naïve to know it. I play silent as she delivers her earnest words to me across the library, “Your love is a beautiful thing, Lyra. I have no doubt that she loved you just as much, and if she was still alive... and saw you like this... she would let you go, Lyra. She would do the same thing for you as you would do for her, so that you can live on. What greater love is that?”

I look deep into Twilight's eyes, and suddenly I see your eyes instead, pearlescent blue oceans that once twitched and brimmed beneath me, that clung onto every visual piece of my sobbing face as the light went out in your soul and the warmth was drained from your limbs. I held your porcelain shell for what must have been centuries, and no matter how loud my wails were, they could not drown out the sacred serenade of your final, fainting breath.

Yes. There is greater love.

I barely notice Twilight has gotten up until I see her wandering back from a table beset with tissues. She smiles at me, attempting to dredge me up from the black mire of our session. If only things were that simple. “I have an idea, Lyra. There's going to be a party this afternoon...”

I can already feel my ears drooping on either side of the horn-cap's weight. “You don't say...”

“Pinkie Pie's inviting everypony to attend. There's going to be lots of treats, lots of chatter, maybe even some games.” She squats down on folded limbs beside me. “And... I really think you should attend.”

She knows my answer even before I do. “I really don't think that's a good idea, Twilight.”

“Lyra, there's more in life worth absorbing your thoughts than volunteer work at the hospital. How many months have you been in therapy, and in all of that time have you bothered to mingle with other ponies? You know, like you used to?”

I sigh. The room is full of books and still there aren't enough words to formulate an excuse. “I used to do a lot of things, Twilight. None of them are all that easy to do now.”

“Which is why you should try, Lyra. Perhaps you'll discover that it's not so hard to...” She briefly giggled and smiled wider. “...to be cheerful, just for the sake of the feeling.” She winked. “We are trying to get you to feel again, right?”

I hate it. I hate it when she speaks in plural-first-person. If only she knew how grating it was. But she doesn't, and I can't fault her for ignorance. When all the life is drained from a pony by a single, traumatic experience, the gritty parts left over are the most fertile, and they rarely grow fruit trees. For the longest time, I realized that I knew more than she did about all this, in that I didn't bother to try to know much at all. This really is her journey. The unicorn's entire legacy in Ponyville is her journey. I should be annoyed by this, and yet I can't help but pity her... in much the same way she thinks she's pitying me. Ponies who are the most lost are the ones who don't even know it. That's something that can't be helped, but it can be humored.

“Alright, Twilight,” I say with a groan. “I'll attend, for what it's worth.”

“That's good, Lyra. That's very good,” she says with a bright smile, then points her horn towards mine like an extra appendage. “And be sure to switch the channeling spell on while you're there. If this experiment of ours is to be of any success, then you should record the good moments as much as the random or unpleasant ones.”





Pink balloons. Pastel streamers. Confetti and horns and bright lights. Now everything isn't just random and unpleasant, it's random and unpleasant and annoying. Pinkie Pie is at the center of it all, and that explains everything. I try to ignore her like I ignore the rotation of the Earth. I sit in the corner, the quintessential wallflower. I've tried to be fashionably late, but it hasn't been late enough. Time is ticking, beating against my eardrums like the fast-tempo music warbling off the record player. I want out of here like a newborn. These hooves of mine can't crush my skull, but they keep rubbing my temple in the humble attempt. Why in Celestia's name am I recording this again?





Ponies. Lots of ponies.

Dear Luna, how can there be so many? I don't think even the streets of Ponyville had this many equines at any given time. I'm starting to think they're all trying too hard. Even the pegasi are floating just beneath the ceiling of Sugarcube corner to make room for the bulging crowd. What could possibly garner this much attention?

I look at the banner one more time with as much disbelief as I have the last dozen times. It's a congratulatory message to Fluttershy and Rainbow Dash. I'm not even sure what the “congratulations” is for. Did I miss it? I somehow don't doubt it.

Rarity's at least two dozen manes across the eatery from me. For the umpteenth time, she makes eye contact and attempts to sashay over. Then, for the umpteenth time squared, she's interrupted by some pony acquaintance or another who distracts her long enough for the mechanical absurdity to rinse and repeat. It's the most tense situation I've ever been in my life. At least it distracts me from Pinkie Pie.

I sigh. I'd rather be drowned in sweat and tears than this. At least there is punch to look forward to. Tears and punch—they seldom ever cross paths, but I am thankful for them both nonetheless. I glance at the clock. It's two hours until midnight. There's a shrill scream from across Sugarcube Corner that breaks the rhythmically predictable music of Vinyl Scratch, and I glance up in time to see Rainbow Dash attempting to disentangle a tiny green alligator from Fluttershy's tail while frowning at an embarrassed Pinkie Pie. The room vibrates. Giggles and confetti. Two more hours. Two more hours. Two more hours.





“Fillies and gentlecolts!” Rainbow Dash's voice booms over the neverending cacophony of pastel-colored jubilee. She hovers in the center of the room with the demure, wilted shape of Fluttershy at her side. “If we could have your attention, please!”

Am I still awake? Unfortunately, I think the answer is “yes.” Midnight is an arrogant mistress, and I'm already plotting her murder. The room becomes briefly, blissfully quiet as several ponies turn to face the two guests of honor in the center of the sugary place.

“As you all well know, Pinkie threw us this wild and crazy shindig to let us get something epic off our chests!” Rainbow Dash smiles proudly and throws a grin Fluttershy's way while shaking the yellow pegasus' shoulders. “Go on, Fluttershy. Tell 'em the good news!”

“Mmmm...” The mare's platinum cheeks morph into a rosy hue. I think something is about to explode from deep inside her, and she's too scared to prevent it.

Rainbow Dash rolls her eyes and promptly rescues the situation. “Ahem... Fine... I have a special announcement to make!” She hugs Fluttershy even tighter and grins victoriously towards the crowd. “Fluttershy and I spent a week in Fillydelphia visiting a foster home. We've decided to adopt our first child by the end of the month! We're starting a family!”

Roaring cheers. Whistles and giggles and gleeful chants. My ears hurt. I hear Applejack's twangy caterwauling for the first time. I didn't even know she was here. From across the room, Twilight smiles at me, as if this was somehow supposed to be “our moment” as much as it was Rainbow's and Fluttershy's. I don't get it.

No. That's a lie. I do get it. You would smack me for denying so.

I really don't want to be here right now. I thought I'd be gone by midnight, but that awesome declaration has undeniably thrown an extra hour of euphoria into the wild party. I'm starting to feel too exhausted to bother being polite. The cap on my horn weighs heavier and heavier. When was the last time I ate? I'm so full of punch at the moment; I might build a toilet stall right where I'm sitting just to give myself an excuse.

“We... uhm... We've already selected the little filly,” Fluttershy's voice finally breaks through her iron-tight lips. “The infant's name is 'Rosy Skies', and her late parents were Clousdalian. It... It seemed only fitting...”

“Well, I for one, am happy for you!” Twilight Sparkle walks up, speaks up, and telekinetically raises a glass of punch. “If I could propose a toast to the new and proud foster parents of Ponyville...”

Yeah. Now's a good time to stop recording.





Ow. What did I just bump into? I was on my way out the door, finally, when—Oh, Pinkie Pie.

“Aren't you excited, Lyra?!” She jumps and jumps. She's in my face. Celestia alive, what's wrong with ponies these days? Do we really need to breathe on each other? “Sure beats banging tools around a dusty, half-built bathroom, huh?! Come on and say 'hello' to the newly adoptive parents!”

“Pinkie Pie, I'm happy for them. But I think I really need to go—”

“Well, here's your opportunity to tell them just how happy you are!” Pinkie is practically dragging the two confused pegasi over to me. “Fluttershy! Dashie! Look who showed up just for you!”

The same euphoria that dribbles off of Pinkie Pie's face is hardly showing in Fluttershy's and Rainbow Dash's. As soon as they glance at me, their eyes tilt up, twitch, then force themselves back down to look me square in the face. They're immune to the hysterical cloud engulfing their pink friend, and I respect them for that. I truly do.

“Oh... H-Hey, Lyra!” Rainbow Dash's smile cracks almost as much as her voice does half the time.

“It is oh so special to have you here,” Fluttershy says in a lulling voice. Golden silk to my ears. For a brief moment, I'm almost calm enough to be the kind of party guest they deserve to be graced with. “After all you've been through, it's encouraging to see you spending time with other ponies again. I do hope you've managed to have some fun.”

“Twilight made you come, didn't she?” Rainbow's eyebrows raise interrogatively.

“Shhh!” Fluttershy nudges her partner with a surprising show of strength, then smiles my way again. “I'm sure you heard the big announcement. At first, I really didn't want to make a big show out of it, but—”

“But how could you not party over something as awesome and amazing and super sweet as Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy adopting a new, baby foal?!” Pinkie Pie's head shook, and her explosive hair with it. How can anypony stand to let her mane get so tangled and unkempt? Even in my darkest days as of late, my mane has remained straight. Shorter than normal, perhaps, but straight. “As soon as they told me, I knew that every other pony in Ponyville had to hear it with surprise fanfare! Because any tiny soul lucky enough to be blessed by Dashie's and Fluttershy's parenting deserves no less of a celebration! I'm already planning Rosy Skies' first birthday party, second, third—Oh! Don't forget the cutsie-nera! Of course, that's—what?—nine or ten years down the line, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared! Just like my grandma said! 'The best celebration is the one met with great anticipation!' And, yes, I know that totally makes her sound like a zebra shaman, but I'm pretty sure if she had stripes under that pink coat, I would have known by the time Octavia and I were old enough to ride a bike—”

“I think she gets the picture, Pinkie,” Rainbow Dash says, planting a blue hoof over the party host's muzzle. She smirks my way, her eyes surprisingly soft for the notoriously brash weather flier of Ponyville. “On your way home, Lyra? We won't stop you.”

It's the first blessing I've had all day. “I'm glad for you two.” I really mean it. Or, at least, I would have really meant it. It is the right thing to say, after all. My horn is so heavy. There's a warm shower waiting for me somewhere. I'm surprised to actually be looking forward to it again. “I... uhm... I'm sorry that I wasn't there for your wedding reception six months ago. Things were... well...”

“We know, Lyra,” Fluttershy nods. There's a sudden desperation to be seen in how close she's hugging her partner from the side. She knows she can't hide it from me, from my eyes. “And if ever you need somepony to talk to, Rainbow and I are here.”

“Oh! You guys should really get together and talk sometime!” Pinkie Pie is again everywhere, everywhere in my face, yanking her glance back and forth between me and the two pegasi. “What happier place is there to be than in a conversation with a loving couple on the eve of their next best day ever!”

“Right...” I shudder. The weight of the horn-cap carries my glance down. The floor tile of Sugarcube Corner is suddenly and unexpectedly interesting to me. “Well, if you don't mind, I'd best be off—”

“It's an even better day than when they got married!” Pinkie Pie beams. “Cuz they're starting a family now! Against all odds, they're spreading their love into uncharted... erm... waters of joy and stuff!”

“Pinkie Pie...” Fluttershy's voice spins through the air. It's a trembling thing. “Uhm... I-I think that's enough...”

“And I can't wait to see the little scamp grow up! To think of her being a combined bubble of awesome and gentleness because of you two! It's like heaven's gift to Ponyville! Don't you think so, Lyra?”

I can't see the floor anymore. The bright tiles are merging. Blue and pink. Your mane hair used to glow in the toasty light of the fireplace. You turned and gazed at me. You asked me what I thought. For a moment, you actually assumed I hadn't been listening to you. But I heard every single word that you said. And I told you that I would only go through with it if it was a colt, because I've always wanted to play catch with a kid and this world is too damned cruel to fillies who want to telekinetically pitch softballs. You smiled at me, tears in your eyes, as if what I said was the sweetest reply you could ever hear. You would have kissed me, but then you started coughing. You started coughing and you never stopped. You never stopped. You never...

“Lyra? Pfft! Hellooooo? Don't be a rudey-rudey-tomfooler-dudey at the newlyweds' biggest celebration ever!”

“I... I need to go...”

“Heehee! Come on! Don't be shy—” She reaches over. Her hooves could just as well be red hot pokers.

So I bat them away like the claws that they are. Somepony is yelling and she sounds like me. “Will you buzz off, you stupid, overgrown child?! I said I was happy for them, wasn't that enough?!” A record scratches to silence somewhere. Every breath in the crowded place is like a falling pile of dull pebbles. Somehow, I don't think that avalanche has quite ended. “I'm happy that they're so lucky! I'm happy that they're both alive and healthy! And I'm happy they've got a little bundle of joy to add to the colorful mess!” Pinkie Pie is lying on her back, her legs curled, her blue eyes blinking wide. This is what clues me into the fact that I'm leering over her. The horn's shadow above her has a bulbous end, like somepony's waving a hammer over her flinching features. “What more do you want from me?! I only came to this party because I was asked to! Some ponies just aren't in the mood to celebrate! Some ponies have lost enough that they know better than to party over things that haven't happened yet! So will you get a frickin' clue and lay off?!”

Pinkie Pie stares up at me, her eyes wide. For the briefest moment—obscured by my heaving, hyperventilating vision—she looks like the shadow of the annoying creature I'm familiar with. Perhaps it's the weight of this horn-cap straining at my eyesight, but I can almost swear her hair is straighter than normal, a precious and porcelain thing that looks as though it’s been shattered before.

“Lyra...?” she murmurs, her voice like a lanternlight suddenly about to be snuffed out. “I... I know a thing or two about losing what I love.” She gulps, and her next breath is a far stronger thing than I could ever muster. “But I've chosen to laugh at all the darkness in my life. After so many months of Twilight helping you, what have you chosen?”

“Pinkie!” a lavender unicorn's voice barks from across the room.

Everyone flinches, as if expecting me to explode. But I haven't. After all, you wouldn't have let me, and suddenly I realize that. It hurts more than anything I've pretended to be sorrowful about over the last half-a-year. I gaze up at the room, and everypony makes up a blank mosaic of hollow shells, and yet they're so full of life. I'm afraid I'll be too numb to the fires in their eyes to ever be sentient enough to envy what they have.

Anger is a good enough shroud to escape under. “You know what, screw all of you. I'm doing rather fine for myself, thank you very much.” I choose to make my escape swiftly, darting out of the depths of Sugarcube Corner with a swish of my gray tail. But upon the exit, I trudge into the fields of failure, and I spin about in time to catch their eyes aimed at what I know they're too selfish to pry themselves away from. “And stop staring at my friggin' horn! It's not going to hop out and choke you to death!” I shout, pointing at the offending promontory on my skull, along with its arcanium cap. “As a matter of fact, this stupid plug is the one thing keeping me from going all Discord on your flanks! So would it kill you to be friggin' grateful?!”

Every face suddenly turns from me, all except for one. It's a genuine sadness instead of superficial disappointment that blemishes Twilight Sparkle's expression. I really, really don't look forward to our next appointment. I turn and leave the party in a huff. Life is a masquerade ball from the get-go. Maybe someday, one of those ponies will understand that, and realize they're just as guilty as I am of not being able to hold in all the pretense.





I arrive home under the cover of darkness and the first thing I see is my lyre. That's what sets me off. I slam the door shut. I pace loudly across the living room on clopping hooves. No amount of walls, no number of kitchen cabinets, no dazzling array of doors—bedroom doors, closet doors, or basement doors—can hold in my seething breaths. Suddenly, it's not Twilight's fault. It's not Fluttershy's or Rainbow Dash's fault. It's not even Pinkie Pie's fault. It's all that damnable lyre, and since I can't in very good sanity rip off two patches of skin from my flanks, I do the next best thing.

When the musical instrument slams into the hearth, it actually bounces off like it was made of rubber. I'm almost too surprised to be angry. It's with a hazy disposition that I find myself jumping up and down on top of the musical instrument, mangling it beyond recognition, bending the strings at odd angles, squeezing every drop of syphonous melody out of the platinum corpse that I used to hold value in, that I used to mark the days of joy with, that I used to think could paraphrase my past and future into a single ballad of hope and cohesion.

Forty seconds into my dastardly deed, I am screaming. It is a long and violent thing, far lengthier than it needs to be, and I realize that the reason for this is because I am trying to drown out the inevitable, but I can't. I don't have the breath to do it. I don't have the sheer mortal willpower or awesome strength. I fall to my knees, and as soon as my lungs are empty, my hope is gone, for you have caught up with me. You cannot be masked by screams. You cannot be washed away by tears. You are behind every door that I open, and it only ever leads into an empty room christened by all of your shadows and none of your smiles.

With my sobs, I beg for you to hold me. With my tears, I plead and I entreat you. You answer with nothing, for you are nothing, and I will only ever be half of nothing... so long as I am alive here without you.

So I live in this house, before a dead fireplace, collapsed in a heap of my own crying breaths, trying to piece together the parts of me you once thought was precious, that you were once so passionately willing to marry, that you would even have raised a brand new life with. Instead, there is what there always has been, with or without you, with or without us. There is death, nothing but it. I cry myself to sleep, not even bothering to crawl myself into the bedroom, and I practice for that which I've learned to expect nothing less of.





Golden light. Morning mist and painful hunger. Did I sleep in? Why am I on the floor? My face is drier than it should be. I was crying over something last night. I should take a shower and make myself breakfast before I remember what it is that I was upset about.

Wait. My lyre?

Oh Celestia dang it. Celestia dang it to Hell.

Maybe I'll choke on a bowl of oats.





I didn't choke. Orderlies and nurses flurry past me as I march down the sterile hallway of Ponyville Hospital, past the emergency room, past distant and murmuring visitors clustered around loved ones in the throes of panic an agony.

Nurse Red Heart is up ahead. I briefly wonder if she caught wind of my little speech at Sugarcube Corner. She takes one glance at me and from the look in her face, I know that she has.

“Lyra! You're... here today!”

“The bathroom won't finish itself.” I've already got the utility closet open. I grab my tools. My hoofsaw. My bucket... Just what do I use the bucket for anyways? I dunno. “I'm taking long enough as it is. There's no point in delaying any longer.”

“Oh Lyra, both you and I know this isn't about that wing of the hospital being finished.” She smiles. Her teeth are whiter than white. I really wish she'd stop aiming them at me. “You should be taking your time. I... I really think you deserve a day off.”

“These are my days off, Nurse Red Heart. They all are. Now if you'll excuse me—”

“But you look like a mess! Did you even get any sleep last night—?”

“I slept as I always slept! Cold, dead and stupid!” I snarl, forcing even the patients to glance my way. “Now let me do my work and save the bedside manner for those in bed!” I'm gone long before anypony can call the cops. If only the day could get that exciting.





I hate this bathroom stall with a passion. I've sliced the fiberglass into what I thought was an appropriate length, but somehow it's even longer than when I first measured it. I don't know what's actually bending: my eyesight or the laws of time and space. Maybe parasprites are to blame. Whatever. You would have liked that joke.

No. No more sighing. No more tears. You're not here. I'm here. The toilets are here. The sawdust is here, and I'm about to make more.

I slap the fiberglass wall onto two overturned blocks and brace them in place. I grasp the hoofsaw in one limb and lean over the plank, my tail facing the line of tarped windows behind me. Life is as simple as you build it or destroy it. I have a straight line marked out for me. All I need to do is cut along the meridian and I'll have this damnable partition fixed just right.

As soon as I begin slicing, the rhythmic grinding noise fills my ears like the hushed murmur of a dying party. I groan inwardly. It's still too early to feel guilty about last night. The anger is still fresh, still righteous. I should lean on the crutches of my passion more. Maybe that's what Twilight means when she tells me that I should “feel” more. But if that's true, then she wouldn't like what I feel. She wouldn't like this sullen spirit boiling underneath it all, waiting to sprout its explosive ambush.

I have chosen, Pinkie Pie. I have chosen what to do with my life. What has that cotton-candy-maned abomination of pink ever done to earn the right to choose? She lives in Mr. and Mrs. Cake's attic like a discarded piece of furniture, and I'm willing to bet her tears are worth just as much dust. I don't care what she thinks she's lost. If she goes around shoving her grin into other ponies' faces like that, she certainly hasn't learned anything from it.

I grit my teeth. The plank is refusing me. Everything is refusing me. I saw harder and harder, slicing the fiberglass apart like I would wish to slice apart this blasted day long before it's even started. Things can never be simple, and yet they are. Why is it that I'm the only living thing in Ponyville to see it? The lights are either on or off. What we call “precious” are really just illusions, attributes we assign to things that we are too afraid to lose. Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy think as though they're adopting something precious. It hasn't occurred to them yet that they could lose it even before they have it. How could they? What has Fluttershy lost? She's the daughter of a famous, rich Equestrian physician. And what about Rainbow Dash? She still thinks she can join the Wonderbolts. She isn't even remotely prepared to face the undeniable loss in front of her.

Precious things are only precious because they stand to no longer exist as soon as we comprehend them. I almost want to teach this to everypony, but what's the use? They live off the fumes of blissful, childish dreams, whether it’s becoming a famous fashion icon or a Wonderbolt or... or... Princess Celestia's third ovary. It doesn't matter.

I saw harder and harder. Flakes of fiberglass are bathing my rear hooves. I've been bathed in worse things before. Judging by how long I'll be living in this stupid, clueless town, I'm bound to be bathed in even more. How dare they all stare at me like some sort of freak? And how dare Pinkie Pie call me rude?

I don't feel rude. I feel cold—sharp, jagged knives of icy cold. It's gnawing its way into my left hoof, and suddenly it blossoms into something far deeper and far redder beneath the frigid exterior. This is not cold. This is pain. Lots and lots of pain.

I've just sliced my left arm open.

“Nnnngh—Aaaugh!”

I jerk back, and a red fountain jerks with me. Bathes me. Trips me as I sprawl onto my haunches and squirm into the recesses of my suddenly soaked self. I clutch my left limb with my right hoof. The gash is deep. I look into it and white bone looks back. A shrill cry, foalish and floundering. I never knew my voice could reach such a high pitch. My body is stinging with this jarring pain. My entire skeleton vibrates. I feel like the arcanium cap is going to fly off my horn. In some way, I wish it had.

“Mmmmmnngh—Damn it! Damn it to hell!”

I stumble up to my hooves and kick the bucket. I finally know what that thing's for. It clatters beneath the indifferent line of mirrors as I stumble through a throbbing bathroom of anguish, leaking red beneath me. Dear Luna, it's an absolute fountain. I feel it spurting out of me with each wrenching pulse. I'm emptying myself everywhere. How important was the part of me I just lacerated? At least I'm in a hospital. Somepony somewhere must be hearing my screams. I don't care how deep into the expanded wing I am.

Still, eveypony is so immeasurably far away. I'd give anything to be blinded by Nurse Red Heart's bright white teeth right about now, if only it would mean the end to this slick, crimson suffering. I hobble forward on three limbs, screeching at myself like an albatross pierced by an arrow, and just as unbalanced as a clipped bird would be flightless.

I look ahead. The world's fogging through tears I'm too ashamed to acknowledge. All I see is a black obelisk, the empty nothing encompassing a door. I fall towards it, collapsing, and brace myself with the last thing I can—my injured limb. I let out a shriek as my weight crushes the fresh wound, plastering the doorframe with my inside's juices. It's all too much... too much blood. This isn't good. I'm scared. I'm so scared. I shut my eyes and lean against the bloodied doorframe. You... You...





You used to hold me at times like this. I was a grown mare, and still I was scared of ridiculous things like thunderstorms or shrieking cats in the middle of the night. I always hated cats. When you asked me why, I pretended like I hadn't said anything, and simply surrendered myself into the hug I had forced you to give me under the covers.

I smiled victoriously to myself, and judging from how long you held me into the whimpering recesses of the night, I think you felt like it was a victory worth celebrating too. It's been nearly half a year, and still it surprises me how well I can remember the feel of your breath against my mane, and how much it warmed me.





The pain is gone. The surprise of this is what opens my eyes, and I am even further shocked to see that every light in the hospital is out. I know that this is the extended wing, and things are still undergoing construction, but I don't see why the rest of the hospital's staff would have switched all the lights off at this time of the day. Surely they know that I'd be working here. Maybe I actually ticked off Nurse Red Heart earlier. Even so, I doubt she'd do something as petty as ruin my volunteer work by playing with the circuit breakers.

Wait, my pain is gone.

I glance at my hoof. In all those panicked seconds of bleeding a moment ago, I didn't feel like vomiting as much as I do now. My limb has stopped bleeding, but the wound is still there. It's almost as if the blood has patched itself up, performing a week's worth of scabbing up in a single blink. That can't be right. Did I pass out and wake up? If so, could I have done all of it in a standing position?

I glance at myself. I'm still leaning against the doorframe, but somehow that is different too. The wood looks older, splintery, decrepit. Wasn't the foundation for this laid less than two months ago?

I turn around and glance at the bathroom. Now I know something's screwy. The two bathroom stalls that I erected just yesterday are in the same place as I left them, but they look old. I mean really old. There're mildew strains on them and flakes of shattered fibreglass spilled all over the toilets. It's as though the bathroom had been left unattended for weeks... months... no, screw that, years.

My body swivels about once more, and a faded image stares back at me. I blink. The tarps have cleanly fallen off the mirrors of the bathroom. The sinks are hanging off the walls of shattered tile. Rust and sediment is pouring out of every faucet. I stroll up to the mirror and glance curiously at the figure beneath all the grime. I raise a hoof, wipe a stretch of glass clean, and gasp so hard at what I see that I nearly trip over myself.

The arcanium cap is gone. My horn is barren. Oh Dear Celestia, this is bad! I can't control my magic! I'll tear this wing of the hospital to shreds!

I fall into a shivering heap on the ground and clutch my skull, whimpering. It's a pathetic sight, I imagine, but a necessary one, for as long as it lasts. And it doesn't last long, for none of my fears are coming true. Everything is still. Everything is desolate. Slowly, pensively, I stand back up, blinking curiously at the reflection once more.

The cap is gone, and yet the suppression fields are still active. Either that, or I don't need the suppression spell anymore. But that can't be right! My head still feels heavy. Everything about this room is twice as sterile as normal.

Wait, can I even be recording anymore? If the cap was on, I know I sure as heck would be at this point. My heart won't stop beating. I look around and around at the tattered lengths of the room... and realize that somehow I can see the tattered lengths of the room. There's a dim light in this place after all, a gray light. I gaze up at where I know the one lone window to be.

The thin, horizontal slit is fogged over. The plated window is plastered over with milky white dust. Whatever is beyond it, I cannot make out anything but a pale miasma. Was it supposed to be overcast this morning? What's going on here?

I glance at the bathroom, at my dried-up wound, at my plug-less reflection. I suddenly don't want to be in this place anymore. I really, really don't.

Turning about, I shuffle out of the bathroom and into the inner depths of the hospital.





Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

Everypony is gone. They must have fled in a flash, for they left everything in disarray. Even that, I realize, is a cheap excuse of failed logic.

All of the electricity is out. None of the life support machines are switched on. The usual, beeping cadence of the hospital monitors are dead and mute. There's no shuffling of hooves because there are no ponies to produce them. The place is barren. There is nopony in sight. The nurse stations are covered with tattered bits of papery debris. The gurneys and patient beds are threadbare and moth-eaten. Chips of paint have fallen onto the emergency room and the waiting area beyond.

“Hello?!” I call out. Either this is the most elaborate, epic-scaled practical joke ever perpetrated on a unicorn in the history of Equestria, or I was distracted from a severely terrible event that took place without me. “Anypony there?! What gives?!”

My voice would normally echo in a place this large and empty, but something drowns it out. Everything is silent, save for the lonesome squeak of a bent wheelchair's overturned spokes lingering in front of me. I become faintly aware of a fine, thin soup filtering through the air of the lobby. Squinting, I gaze towards the stretch of windows. They're abnormally bright in the wake of all this darkness and desolation. Again, a dull, pale glow permeates the world outside. If something terrible has happened, it's likely that everypony ran out in a hurry. I decide to follow suit. Atop clamoring hooves, I rush towards the front doors of the hospital. They refuse to slide open for me. In a sudden panic, I'm pushing against them, shoving with all my might. After a trembling of my muscles, the doors give way.





It's bright. And yet it isn't. My eyes adjust, and soon I wish they hadn't. The streets of Ponyville are empty. White mists. Dead air. Floating fog. I can barely see ten feet in front of me. Did the weather fliers crash a cloud into the middle of the village?

Then I see debris. Clumps of rusted metal. Discarded shreds of paper. Splintery bits of wood. The normally brown street is littered with the bric-a-brac of... of... what? Did the town explode? If so, why didn't I hear anything?

I step out into the mist. It is quieter than quiet. A pony could hear the decay of butterfly wings against the canvas of this noiselessness and somehow it would resemble thunder. Suddenly, I’m starting to not detest the gentle murmur of a Sugarcube Corner gathering quite so much. I am alone. Truly and utterly alone. Without the secure cloak of my usual bitterness, this stabs me in a funny way. I am no longer sad or angry. I am simply scared.

No. I just need to calm down. Look around. Think. Record. Think and record. Something bad has happened, and I need to chronicle all of it... assuming I still can. It's a ridiculous thought, but an even stronger belief. I cling to it as I cling to my vocal cords, flinging words around along with my twitching gaze:

“Hello?! Where is everypony?! What's happened to Ponyville?!”

Nothing responds to nothing. I wonder if there could ever be a more disquieting sensation. I march into the pea soup whiteness, momentarily engulfed by it. I could just as well be walking on a cloud. I almost feel as if I could very literally fall throught it at any moment, and that doesn't bode well for a non-pegasus.

“Hello?! Where the heck is everyone?! Please—I'm sorry for being such a jerk at Pinkie's party last night!”

I'm grabbing for straws. I always have been. Ever since you left me.

“Just say something! This is totally not cool!”

You left me, and yet you didn't. Is this what I get for dwelling on it? How many more things have I let slip from beneath me before I had to slice my limb open on “accident” to wake up to it? Or perhaps I haven't woken up at all?

I run a hand through my mane. I can't stop my shuddering breaths. With each crumpled building I pass by, I hyperventilate harder and harder. The fog unfolds, and the town stretching beyond it is falling apart. It takes blinking snapshots to realize how bad it is, and then it gets even worse. Windows are boarded up. Shop signs are hanging loosely on rusted chains. Chickenwire fence has replaced glass and splintery fences stretch around long-dead gardens. Sugarcube Corner is almost caving in on itself. The Ponyville Library has lost all its leaves. The Carousel Boutique is leaning precariously to the side, and the tents beyond...

I stop. I gaze. My lips part in disbelief.

The tents...

Are they... made of leather?

Wood creaks underneath me. I gasp. I look down. I've stumbled onto a plank of wooden shingles. I can see through the cracks in them, and everything is gray mist. The fog dissipates briefly—like an ivory monster yawning its jaws wide—and I see a huge abyss stretching beneath, slicing off the edge of town with a deep, impenetrable chasm that sucks out all light like it is currently sucking out all my breath.

The wood creaks some more. It cracks. I'm going to fall. Oh Celestia, I'm going to plummet into the abyss!

The wood gives way. Two thick planks fall forever into nothingness, but they are alone. I've fallen back on my haunches, sitting and panting safely on solid earth. Before the fog coalesces once more, I realize that the chasm stretches on into all perceivable horizons. What could have carved this inexplicable ravine into the earth, I have no clue. I'm too frightened to think. I can only feel... and that feeling is overwhelmed by a racing heartbeat.

Twilight Sparkle would be proud of me.

It's just then that I feel a cold touch. Then a second—like frigid tendrils kissing up and down my neck. I gaze up. White dots are filling my vision. I raise a hoof up, and a pair of ashen flakes lands on my limb, then more, then even more.

It's snowing, and yet it isn't freezing. What kind of madness is this? Did Discord take over Equestria again? This doesn't jive with his bizarre sense of humor. No living creature should be mad enough to blemish the world like this. Where did everything and everypony go? Into the chasm that almost swallowed me up?

I can't sit straight. I can hardly even stay conscious. I need to go somewhere. In times like this—as in every other moment of my lonesome life—there's only one place to go.

Home.

I get up, turn away from the ravine, and gallop straight into the heart of town as fast as my fleeting breaths can carry me. The snowy fog if a heartless sea, and I am stringing my way through it.





I know something isn't right as soon as I see my front entrance. The door is missing. Never mind the rotting garden and boarded up windows—What in Celestia's name happened to my door? I stumble up towards it, fidgeting, glancing at the frame. I blink, then squint. Something's lining the wooden finish that surrounds my entrance. It almost looks like markings... letters? Words? If so, I can't possibly read the language. Is this some sort of joke? Who would line my entire door with stupid, inane runes... and so many of them at that?

I disregard this confusion as I disregard my safety, marching swiftly into my home, only it isn't my home. It's a burned-out hovel, and many of the walls are missing. As I stumble towards the living room, I realize why. The place has been hollowed out to make room for something that shouldn't be there. The house is larger on the inside than it is on the outside—which is impossible. It must be my memory, only I'm pretty sure my memory would take into account the sight I see before me. Cages. Rings within rings of cages. Giant, barred domes are filling the center of the building. It's too startling to count, but it almost looks like six chambers inside of even larger chambers. It's like a labyrinthine nautilus shell of rusted metal bars has stretched up out of nowhere. There's so many criss-crossing rails before my sight that I can barely see through them, much less make out the rusted metal doorframes locked within the circumferences of these jailed obstructions.

I can't help it. I move forward, hoping to make a closer inspection, when I step onto something. I glance down and see a bright object amidst the brown and decaying debris of my demolished home.

It's my lyre. What's more, it's not shattered or bent or even remotely damaged in such a way as... I damaged it, just last night, in a fit of rage. In fact, it looks just as new and immaculate as the day I first received it as a gift, only all of the strings are gone. That shouldn't be possible. It was in perfect condition the day of our first anniversary, when you surprised me with it...

You...

“You were always so clumsy with your belongings, Heartstrings.”

I freeze in place. Every part of me is chilled to the bone, except for my face. A tear has instantly fallen down my cheek at the sound of that voice. I gaze up from the lyre, through the bars, into the center of the cages-within-cages. There's a “room” in the middle of it all. It's a room with a bed, along with a bookcase, a lamp, two tables, a chair, and you. Your smile. Your pearlescent blue eyes. Your sapphire and pink mane. Every adorably priceless piece of you... and all of it alive.

“Bon Bon?” My voice drips out of me like so many nights spent sobbing into your shadows. I look at you, and you're looking back at me. “Oh sweet Celestia...” You're looking back at me.

“Did you lose the cords on purpose this time?” Your voice is as enchanting as I remember it. It caresses me, squeezes the tears out like milk. “Hmm-hmm-hmmm... Or did you just do it to get my attention?”

“Bon Bon...” I can't stand anymore. I'm leaning against the outer cage, staring at the rows of bars separating us like so many gray, gray months. “But... But... how?” My voice evens out long enough to produce a question beneath all the weeping. “You... You're dead! You died, Bon Bon!”

“Silly Heartstrings,” you giggle from beyond your prison, your blue eyes curving above your sweet, alabaster dimples. “You forget yourself so easily. Wasn't it you who told me, one day, that life is far too short to afford precious things?”