The wind crosses over Saddle lake and saunters in through the open window, passing by me into the empty parlor behind me. Sailboats lazily glide over the dragon-like sea monster that is at home in the waters here, outside the windows of my family’s house. I haven’t seen the flash of its green scales in a while, but I know it’s still there.The light from the setting sun illuminates the sails like candles with flames all the colors of the rainbow. Another train is traversing the bridge that crosses the lake and I watch it pass while hearing the rhythmic cli-clack, cli-clack, cli-clack of the gears and wheels on the tracks. From now until I can officially start my search for my daughter, I’ll start and end each day traveling those tracks.
The sun rolls behind the peaks of the mountains and quickly pulls a brush of purple along the horizon where it bleeds upward into roses and lavenders. All the clouds left to wander between Saddleburne and Cloudsdale turn pink. I guess Celestia can make cotton candy clouds too . . . to some degree at least.
The fresh air of the country spills over my lips and into my lungs. I inhale and taste the rain clouds being made for tomorrow. Ponyville can be spotted on a clear night, when the lights begin to fade except for the candles burning in the windows of industrious ponies. They all have normal lives. Lives that are painfully simple. Their conflicts are common and enviable. Although, I suppose there must be others who struggle the way I do. I can’t assume I have it worse than any other pony. At least now I have a job . . . until the Braylington postal service come to its senses. Who knows if I will be needed after more qualified candidates are found?
The sailboats assemble into the harbor outside the glittering city of Braylington. It’s a place I’ve always loved visiting. I remember looking forward to Hearth’s Warming train rides into the city with my family. All four of us before Photo moved away. She now lives miles, to my back, away in Canterlot.
“Screw Loose. Come to dinner.” my father calls. I reluctantly remove my hooves from the open window ledge and walk into the dining room. The dusty chandelier burns the cobwebs it had accumulated when our butler light the candles with his magic. He pulls out my chair across from my mother and pushes me in. To my left, at the head of the table, sits my father. The foot of the table is at least a dozen ponies away from me. Our servant brings out the rolling cart and serves us our dinner. I don’t move until my father does. Once he nods to the servants and we’re left alone, I pick up my fork and select a perfectly dressed daisy as my first taste.
“How did the hunt go today?”
“I got a job.”
“Oh wonderful,” my mother says while my father smiles at me, “Where is it?”
“The Braylington Postal Service.” My father places his fork down without taking the food from it. Here it comes . . .
“The Postal Service? Why did you seek a job there?”
“They offered it to me.”
“Didn’t you check at the bank?”
“Yes. They rejected me.”
“Which one did you interview at? I can—”
“Please. I’d rather do this on my own.”
“We’re not saying that being involved in the Postal Service is a bad job . . . It’s just . . .” my mother flounders, unable to keep her muzzle unwrinkled.
“Not what you expected your daughter to be?”
“Well, is it something you want to do for the rest of your life?” my mother asks, rhetorically. I feel my father’s penetrating question though I won’t look at his face directly.
“I . . . I just need money.”
“For what?” I can’t bring myself to answer her.
“If money is your concern, we’re not exactly poor you know . . . “ my father points out, “You could also speak to Photo Finish—”
“We didn’t end on a good note and I doubt that will change until she drops her accent.”
“Photo is allowed to be eccentric. You have your own quirks.”
“Like humming?” The flush of hot annoyance in my cheeks turns to shame. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’re tired. How long until you have to work?”
“I start tomorrow.”
“So soon? Are they desperate?”
“Basically.” I admit. My father suppresses a groan, for the most part. At least he’s trying.
“Screwloose, are you certain you have to have this job? We can pull some strings . . .” she stops when I shake my head then gives a quick nod to show her understanding.
I want to tell her. I want to tell both of my parents. Will they understand? They do care about me to some degree and they might love Mayhem . . . I think. She is their granddaughter. Could that be enough? I will change her name once I find her. I doubt when they look at her beautiful large mismatched eyes and hold her . . .
But, she’s already a filly. She’s not a newborn anymore. She won’t be the infant wrapped in a bundle that rested against her father and me. I’ve missed the first years of my daughter’s life. Her first step, her first words, I’ve missed almost everything. Hopefully I can find her before she gets a cutie mark.
“Screwloose? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” My mother asks, alarmed. I don’t realize my tears until I see some make a puddle in my raspberry vinaigrette.
“It’s . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Tell us. We’ll take care of it.” I sniff and look up at my father. Well, the opportunity is rather accessible at the moment.
“When I was in the hospital . . . I had a child.”
“Do you remember who did it to you?” my father says after he throws his napkin on the table. Murder is in his face.
“I . . . I do.”
“GIve us the name and we’ll see him in court.”
“You can’t.”
“I won’t let my daughter’s rapist go free.”
“I wasn’t raped . . . I agreed to . . . “ I can’t even look at him.
“You what?” My mother asks, aghast.
“Which doctor was it?”
“It wasn’t a doctor.”
“Who then?”
I can’t. I can’t tell them. They’re looking for a scapegoat. It always has to be someone else’s problem. If only they knew.
“Some random pony.”
“‘Some random pony’?”
“Screwloose, you don’t have to protect him. We don’t think you’re weak because you were taken.”
“I wasn’t taken.”
“Of course you were,” my dad says, placing a hoof in my shoulder, “You were barking mad then, quite literally. Obviously someone took advantage of that and he needs to be brought to justice.”
“There were a few hours, 3 years ago, when I had a small moment of sanity.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“The court didn’t need to know that I have a child.”
“Good point. We’ll have to deal with your colt later.” my father says. My mother lets us continue the conversation, waving the butler back into the kitchen.
“Filly.”
“What?”
“I have a daughter. I don’t know her name.”
“If you were conscious for only a few hours, how could you have gotten pregnant and known the gender?”
“It’s . . . complicated.”
“Well, the point is: you don’t need to protect the father. Obviously he cared nothing about you and he needs to be brought to justice.”
“Except you can’t send a pony to jail for a one night stand and you don’t need to. I refuse to press charges.”
“Well, he needs to take custody of the baby—”
“What?”
“Well, obviously, he needs to take responsibility for his actions—”
“The whole reason I got a job is so that I can raise money to get my daughter back.”
“You want to raise her?”
“Of course I do!”
“Now, let’s think about this: You still have your whole life ahead of you. You can have another child once you’ve established yourself in a job that you want.”
I knew this conversation would end in crying. The tears form a solid lump in my chest that forces itself up into my burning eyes.
“Because children are expendable. I know.”
It was a nasty thing to say to them. Both of my parents sit back in surprise. I have to watch my father struggle to say something else, to cover what he had just said.
“Screwloose—” my mother begins.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You should know better than that.” My father says, the shock of what I said has worn off, “You weren’t 'expendable' to us, even when you went crazy and had to be employed as a dog four or five towns away. We still visited you but I suppose that means nothing.”
“Capital . . . “ my mother says to my father, threateningly.
“We weren’t suggesting you completely abandon your daughter. I spoke hastily and you should have given me a chance to correct myself. All I’m saying is: don’t be so focused on getting her back as soon as possible that you neglect your duty to yourself. Find a job you can manage to enjoy for the rest of your life and then start looking for . . . her.”
“May I please be excused?” I ask after a significant amount of silence.
“Yes, you may.” my father says. My mother is emotionless as I leave the table. I hear her calmly tell the butler that it won’t be necessary for the kitchen staff to bring my entrée out to the table, but to send it to my room in an hour.
I ascend the wooden stairs to my room, letting a few stray tears slip. I should have known. I’m always going to be a victim of my circumstances and the actions of others. I couldn’t have possibly made the choice to get pregnant. It was his fault only and now any problems in my life will be because I'm so—
I don’t want to think about it.
She’s their granddaughter. They couldn’t even acknowledge that. She was always ‘your daughter’ or simply ‘her’. Of course, I shouldn’t expect them to think of her like that so soon. They have no reason to love her like I do. She’s . . . a disappointment to them.
Work for Photo Finish? I literally blow a raspberry towards my closed door then pace in front of my window. I tried that once. I get enough of her bossing outside the set. She also kept dressing me like some architect or carpenter pony who forgot to remove the hanger from her clothes and then fell into a vat of glitter and fabric scraps. Yes, she was being experimental at the time, but I’ve never been able to look at sequins without flinching since then. Medical school was a great deal less stressful than modeling under her hoof. I’m just glad she never showed my face without it being altered beyond recognition through makeup and hair dye. Just the thought of those sharp fumes causes me to wrinkle my muzzle.
I need to wind this down. Staying angry won’t help. I close my eyes and sense the edge of the round braided rug on my floor. My anger is on the carpet. All my hurt is there. I slowly walk around the edge twice and then step into the carpet space, following the braid of it inward. My anger and hurt are growing smaller and smaller and condensing into a tiny, breakable sphere in the center. Each turn around the carpet makes the sphere smaller and smaller. Everything is normal. I don’t have to be a victim. I have my life ahead of me. I have nothing to be scared of.
My hooves reach the center and I open my eyes, imagining a sphere in front of my hooves. I can almost hear my therapist shout ‘Now, smash it!’ I rear up on my back legs and imagine the glass sphere of my anger shatter under my hooves.
I’m completely lying to myself but it does help me to calm down.
“Is now a bad time?” a bright voice teases from my door. I turn and smile at my former nanny.
“Miss Halcyon! Did you come to visit me?”
“Of course I did. Come here.” she says, holding out a foreleg for a hug. As I hug the middle-aged unicorn, the smell of vanilla and butter brings back memories from when she would bake with me on long afternoons after I came home from school.
“What did my parents say?”
“They don’t know I’m here yet.”
“Miss Halcyon!” I say over a laugh, “You were supposed to give back your house key when you left.”
“That was only if I never intended to come back. Besides, I’m sure your parents won’t mind that you let me in when I knocked.” she says with a wrinkled wink.
“Of course not.” I say with a smirk, letting her walk over to my window to open it with her magic.
“It’s so stuffy in here.”
“I did just get back last week.”
“I know, and without a single note to me to tell me that you were home!” she huffed dramatically. I laughed again.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Getting a job? Yeah . . . how is that working out?”
“Found one desperate enough to take me.”
“There will be no self-pity while I’m here, Little Miss Trouble!” she declares giving me her best disapproving nanny look. I used to cower to that, but this time I laugh moments before her grin returns.
“Fair enough.” I say, sitting on my bed.
“Yes, but you’re not so little anymore.” her yellow eyes glimmer a touch more as she smiles again, “I am proud of you, Screwloose.”
“No matter what?” I ask, my voice cracking on the last word. Her smile drops and I know she’s read me almost completely.
“While I won’t allow self-pity, I am more than happy to be a shoulder to cry on,” she says, sitting next to me, “Come here, you.” she says, pressing my head to her shoulder with her dark green hoof. I let go. Everything that’s happened to me tumbles out and I have to stop multiple times to sob. She patiently holds me and pats my head like I’m still a filly. With her I don’t care.
“So, who is the father?”
“He’s . . . an enemy of the royal family.”
“Hmm . . . prestigious.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“He sounds like the first male pony who treated you like you weren’t a waste of time.”
“He used me.”
“Yes, and I’ll beat him sore for that, once I find him, but what happened happened and now you have to work with it. Now, who is he?”
“First of all, he’s not actually a pony. He took another form when he met me. He’s . . . I don’t know what he is really, but his name is Discord.”
Her back straightens and she lets go of me. But, the look she gives me is surprise, not revulsion.
“Don’t you . . . don’t you know?”
“Know . . . what?”
“Discord? The draconequus? He’s free now.”
“What . . .”
“Yes, he was released over a year ago.”
“What?”
“He’s living in Canterlot now.”
“What!”