Clean Slate
By Alaborn
Standard disclaimer: This is a not for profit fan work. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is copyright Hasbro, Inc. I make no claim to any copyrighted material mentioned herein.
Chapter 2: Discovery
“Applejack, may I speak with you before you continue?” Mind Spring said.
“Certainly, doctor,” she replied.
“Doctor Heart? Would you take Miss Tiara to her room?” he continued
But I wanted to hear more!
The doctor helped me to my hooves and led me outside. A passing nurse lifted me into a wheelchair and took me back to my room. Soon, I was alone. Celestia’s sun was shining brightly, but it didn’t warm my heart. I still felt alone.
The wait seemed like forever, but Applejack did return to my room. “How are you doing, sugarcube?” she asked.
“I still feel so lost,” I said. “What did the doctor say to you?”
“He just gave me some advice on how to talk to you, how to talk to a pony with amnesia. Primarily, he said not to talk about opinions. He wants you to develop your own.”
I nodded slowly. Applejack sat next to me, and spread out her pictures. She pointed to a mare with a golden mane and a rose coat in a slightly faded photograph. “This is Gold Crown. She was your mother. She passed away three, four years ago.”
Next, Applejack showed me a picture clipped from a newspaper. She pointed to a stallion. This picture was in black and white, but I remembered seeing several photographs of him; he had an amber coat and darker hair. “Your father, Filthy Rich. He was a good pony.”
“I thought you said no opinions,” I mentioned.
“He was a good pony. That’s fact, in my opinion,” Applejack stated.
I couldn’t help but chuckle at Applejack’s contradictory statement. But then I stifled the laugh. If this was my father, and he was dead, too, how could I laugh? What kind of pony was I?
“What’s wrong, sugarcube?” Applejack asked
“Tell me, what happened?” I said, quietly.
“Are you sure? It might be hard to hear,” Applejack said.
I nodded. “If it’s that hard to hear, then I should hear it now, so I have more time to accept it.”
Applejack put away the pictures and took a seat on the bed next to me. “It was spring, getting around to summertime. My little sister and her friends had convinced us to go on another camping trip to Winsome Falls. Said we had such a good time the first time, we should do it again. So we went, but conditions on the ground weren’t too good. We were not that far removed from a big spring storm, and the ground was still muddy in spots.
“We didn’t make as much progress as we wanted, so we set up camp on some drier ground. The next day, we decided to head back, since we knew we wouldn’t be able to reach the falls. On the way back, we heard the sound of collapsing earth, and screams.
“Rainbow Dash flew ahead as the rest of us raced to the commotion. Before we got there, Rainbow Dash had returned, cradling you in her forelegs. You were in real bad shape, but you were still breathing.
“Rarity overpacked for the trip, as usual, but amidst countless trunks of useless clothes and accessories, she had first aid supplies, enough to practically set up a field hospital. We stabilized you as best as we could before Rainbow Dash flew you to the hospital.”
“What about my father?” I asked.
“Your father, and the two ponies pulling the carriage, didn’t survive the fall. You only survived because your father shielded your body with his own,” Applejack explained.
“Why were we there?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Applejack admitted. “That road is the fastest way to get to Fillydelphia, but if that was where you were going, I wouldn’t know why.”
I looked down, thinking about what she had said. Eventually, I pawed at the pictures spread across the bed. I thought Applejack was going to continue her introductions. When she didn’t, I asked “Which other of these ponies are my relatives?”
“None of them, sugarcube. You’re an only child, and it was just you and your father here in Ponyville,” she replied.
“But I thought you said you were family,” I countered.
Applejack sighed. “I am. Now. It’s a bit complicated.” The mare paused before continuing. “We’re not related by blood or anything. But your father’s will specified that if he passed while you were still a foal, he wished for my family to be appointed your guardian. You’re family now, Diamond Tiara, just as much as my blood kin.”
This revelation struck me as unusual. Families are larger than parents and children. “What about my extended family? Why wasn’t one of them named my guardian?” I wondered.
“To be honest, I don’t rightly know,” Applejack admitted. “Your family has long had a business relationship with mine, and I know your father was close to my own parents. He was about fifteen years older than me, so to me, he was always Mr. Rich. I suspect he told my parents why he wanted them to be your guardian, but that would have been one of those adult conversations where little Applejack would have been shooed out of the room. But they’re gone now, so I can’t ask them why.”
“You’re an orphan?” I gasped.
Applejack nodded somberly. “I am. So I can understand this kind of loss. But it’s a bit different for a farm family. I had Granny Smith and my big brother to watch over me, a little sister to protect, and a close-knit extended family who could always be counted on to help when help was needed.” Applejack suddenly embraced me. “You shouldn’t have to be alone.”
I sniffed. The tears welling in my eyes threatened to overflow my eyelids. The warmth of the orange mare’s embrace was unfamiliar yet comforting. “Thank you,” I whispered.
The clip-clop of hooves on the tile floor announced the arrival of the nurse. “Time for physical therapy,” she announced. I released myself from Applejack’s embrace and carefully stepped to the floor. I was determined to make it to the wheelchair on my own. I managed the small number of steps to the chair itself. I placed my forehooves on the seat of the chair, and tried to push myself up. My still weak hind legs failed to complete this task.
After a second failed attempt, I felt the strong grip of a pair of hooves on my rump. Applejack lifted me into the chair. “You’ll get there, sugarcube,” she said.
The nurse wheeled me into the physical therapy room. Muscle Memory was there, with the treadmill, but there was something else in the room. A simple set of freestanding wooden stairs was placed next to a wooden platform. The stairs were broad and rose at a gentle incline, but I dreaded this new physical therapy.
“Welcome back, Diamond Tiara,” the physical therapist said. “Before we use the treadmill today, we’re going to practice climbing stairs. Climb the stairs to the platform, turn around, and then climb back down. Don’t worry about your gait for now; focus on the climb. Go slowly to start, and if you feel dizzy or unsteady on your hooves, stop and tell me.”
I breathed in and faced the stairs. Each step was broad enough that I could stand lengthwise on it. The height didn’t look bad, but I knew lifting my hind legs could be a problem. I awkwardly placed my forehooves on the first step and scooted forward. When my hind legs brushed the edge of the step, I lifted my left hind leg. My right hind leg, bearing more weight than normal, started to shake, but I was able to place my left hind leg on the first step, balancing my weight. Repeating the process, I pulled my right hind leg onto the step.
I paused, waiting for my strength to return. One step down, five to go.
Muscle Memory encouraged me as I continued to climb. I reached the top after some effort. Turning around was a welcome respite, using motions I had practiced the previous day. Now, to get back down.
I stepped onto the first step down, first one foreleg, then the other. I stopped, overcome by dizziness. “Whoa,” I uttered.
I felt the physical therapist steady me, gripping me by the barrel. “A sense of vertigo is often felt by recovering ponies. It’s nothing to be afraid of. Try leaning into me as you step down,” she directed. I followed her instructions, and took the first step down.
Slowly, I completed the transit back to the floor. I looked up to Muscle Memory, smiling weakly. She returned the smile. “Now, let’s do that again.”
I lost count of the number of times I climbed those steps. It was almost a relief to get back on the familiar treadmill. I walked for a while. I then noticed my steps coming faster, as the physical therapist increased the speed on the treadmill.
By the end of the session, I was wiped out. I didn’t fight the nurse who was ready with the wheelchair this time. I returned to the room, where lunch was soon served. I still had to be fed by hoof, much to my disappointment.
Following lunch, I found myself staring out the window. I was expecting more physical therapy, but first, the old doctor, Mind Spring, came in to talk to me. He was carrying the same folder of pictures in his telekinetic aura.
“How are you feeling, Diamond Tiara?” he started.
“Tired. Frustrated. Lost,” I listed.
“Those are normal feelings. Did speaking with Applejack trigger any memories?” Mind Spring asked.
“Nothing,” I replied.
“I’d like you to think hard. Think about everything you’ve experienced since waking up. Do you recall anything familiar? If not memories, then what about feelings or sensations?” The doctor looked at me expectantly.
“Nothing,” I said again. “Wait.” My head. I raised my hoof to my mane. I remember feeling that something was missing, and sure enough, I felt like something should have been there, holding my mane.
“Your tiara?” Mind Spring wondered.
“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t remember what was there, but I remembered something should be there.”
The doctor opened the folder, pulling out one photograph and placing it before me. In that picture, I was wearing a beautiful diamond tiara. I don’t know why I was wearing it. Of all the ponies I’d seen since waking up, none wore anything like it. I stared at the doppelganger in the picture. I had this supremely confident look on my face, as if everything was going to go my way. That me must never have thought that anything like this could happen.
I placed my hoof on the picture and stared. In this picture, I had a cutie mark, a tiara much like the one on my head. I looked again at my flank. “Blank flank,” I said. That was familiar, for some reason.
“You’re wondering why you have no cutie mark now?” Mind Spring asked.
“No. I mean, I am, but I remember feeling… something… when I saw my lack of cutie mark,” I uttered.
“Losing one’s cutie mark is unusual, but not unknown for an amnesiac,” Mind Spring explained. “For a pony whose talent is, say, running, it wouldn’t go away. Even if he would never walk again, a learned talent isn’t lost. But other ponies have cutie marks that are a representation of their personality, and that can be lost.”
“Do you know what my cutie mark means… meant?” I asked.
“I couldn’t answer that without knowing you better, knowing you before the accident,” the doctor said. “But yours appears to be very personal, tied to your name and the jewelry you obviously valued highly. A personal cutie mark like that often represents leadership.”
“But why would that go away?”
“There are many forms of leadership, and without the personality you developed through your twelve years of life, the form of leadership that was your talent may no longer be appropriate for you,” he continued. “Perhaps your talent is still leadership, but you may find yourself a different kind of leader.”
The doctor crouched, putting him at my eye level. He grasped my hooves in his. “Don’t feel you have to be what you were. You have a chance to discover yourself anew, and you should do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
“Okay, Doctor,” I said.
“I’ll be returning to Canterlot today, but I’ll remain in contact with Doctor Heart, and you can call on my expertise at any time,” Mind Spring said. “Good luck, and stay strong.”
That afternoon’s physical therapy was again focused on fine motor skills. Muscle Memory started with range of motion exercises involving my forelegs, in particular moving my fetlocks. The reason soon became clear, as she brought out a series of wooden rods. Starting with the thickest rod, she tried to get me to grip it in my pastern. I couldn’t do it. My legs still felt funny, like that tingling sensation that comes when you sit on them for too long. So we repeated the exercises.
I finally got some feeling back in my forehooves, and eventually gripped the first rod. I handled moving it okay, but I couldn’t maintain my grip when Muscle Memory placed pressure on it. If I couldn’t learn to do this, I’d never be able to feed myself again.
For a week, my therapy continued, two hours in the morning, two hours in the afternoon. The strength and coordination therapy never got easier. As soon as I felt good about my progress, the physical therapist made it harder. The stair training started using narrower and steeper stairs. The treadmill went faster and at a higher incline. It went from a slow walk to a canter to a trot. I even spent a short time galloping, but I couldn’t keep that up for long. After four days, I was able to walk back to my room, albeit not without Muscle Memory supporting me.
Similarly, my motor skills rehabilitation progressed to more difficult items. I succeeded at manipulating one item, and it would be replaced with a smaller item. There seemed to be no end to the ways in which Muscle Memory could make things more difficult.
Applejack visited me once or twice each day. She always asked me how I was feeling. On one visit, she brought some personal items, like a hairbrush and a toothbrush. I was grateful that I could now brush my mane; the feeling was strangely relaxing. I closed my eyes, focusing only on the feeling of the hairs of my mane being tugged into place. I just wish I could hold the toothbrush. As the nurse helped me with my hygiene, I noticed the sad filly in the mirror. She started to look familiar to me.
Then, one morning, Doctor Heart came by my room with Applejack. This was out of normal visiting hours. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“You’re being discharged from the hospital,” the doctor replied. “We’ve scheduled continuing physical therapy sessions and a series of checkups, but your condition has improved so that you no longer require continuous monitoring.”
“You’re going home, sugarcube,” Applejack said.