//------------------------------//
// The Answer 
// Story: None Ever Ask 
// by Mitslits 
//------------------------------//

You have asked. And however little she wants me to, I do intend to keep my word. I promised I would tell you, and so I suppose I must. 

If I hesitate or if I begin to cry, please do not feel as if the fault is yours. It is only my heart, bleeding.  Yearning. Crying. 

First, I must thank you. Every single one who has asked. You. You did what nopony else would. Even my own friends avoid the topic, wishing to keep her away. But you cannot do that by staying silent. No, she will come when she wants, uncontrolled by anypony else. Even me. Her other half cannot, or will not, control her. All I can do is beg her to leave. Cry for her to leave. Threaten her. But she knows my true thoughts. That as soon as she leaves I shall be weak and emotional once more. Too weak. I hate it. My hooves are tied. I am a prisoner in my own body. I hate it.  

I’m sorry to interrupt, my weak, pathetic half, but they grow tired of your whining. All you do is complain. I am as sick of it as they are and if you do not stop soon everypony will desert you. You will be alone. Mostly. I have to stay here of course. I’ve got no choice. Believe me, if the choice were mine, I’d have been gone long ago. Unfortunately, half of a pony can’t leave. It can become dormant, but it cannot leave. 

Now, can you stop rambling about useless ‘feelings’ for a picosecond and just finish the story?!

I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I’ve kept you waiting. Pinkamena was right. You asked; I should answer. And now I shall. Prepare yourselves. You, those who asked, are the first to hear this tale. Even my own sisters, my own mother, know nothing of the sights I have seen. But now you shall know. And I shall hate every second of it. 

Sorry to have to interrupt yet again, but they know all this. Hurry it up. Everypony has things to do. It’s not all about you. And thank Celestia it isn’t. You couldn’t possibly stand all those eyes on you, everypony thinking about how much they hate you…hate you…hate you. None of them like you, you know. Even your friends don’t ask about me. Heh. Some friends. Look, now you’ve got me doing it! Rambling on while there’s pain to be relived. So much pain. How I love it. Tell it. Tell the story. NOW. 

Very well. I shall proceed. 

When I looked down into the little dip near the rockpile, I saw my father. He did not see me. He couldn’t have.  How could he? He was lying in a pool of his own blood. Not dead, no. I could tell by the faint movement of his chest, the slight fluttering of his half-closed eyelids. He lived. 

The blood was a small puddle, slowly oozing, trickling, seeping out from his forelegs. 

Oh. Celestia. 
His forelegs.

They were cut up, lacerated so that I could see right down to the stark white bone. It was such a contrast to the yellow of my father’s coat. The red of the blood. They gray of the rocks. It was only in a few places that he was cut so badly, but they were enough. In other spots he simply had scars, raised inches off his skin. In still other places he had several cuts that were still sluggishly bleeding. 

Even now we have not come to the worst. There were spatters of blood everywhere. All over father, all over the rocks. Everywhere. And then I noticed a few of the rocks in particular. 

They grabbed my attention because they were sharp. They were pointed. And they were covered in blood. It was then that I understood. My father had done this to himself. He was bathing in his own blood because he wanted to be. 

Still, there is more to be said. The scars told me this had been happening for a while. So did the words. My father had taken the time to write words on the stones with other rocks. The pointed, bloody rocks. He wrote them with his own hoof. In his own blood. 

And the words were awful. Dear Celestia, were they awful. Some of them I will not repeat. Some were lies, others were traitor. 

The worst one, by far, was pink. While the others had been written only once or twice that one was repeated. Scrawled in huge letters, written all tiny and cramped. Filling every available surface. 

Then I saw the last and final terror. My father groaned and rolled over. And the blood poured. But then it cleared. And I saw. I saw, I saw, I saw. 

The word. The worst word, pink.  It was written. It was carved. Into his side.