October 2ndMary's eyes fluttered open weakly; strands that had come loose from her still-braided hair were scattered chaotically across her face. The hair stuck to her face further obscured her already hazy vision. It tickled her slightly, forcing her to give her nose a wrinkle and her head a shake. The act also shook loose some of the sleepiness. There was a damp quality to everything as well, making it clear that she had been sweating profusely overnight.
As was usual, Mary pushed herself slowly off of the bed, her hands sliding over the sheets as she did. She noticed they felt funny, but did not think twice about it, instead focusing on waking up.
The bedroom was dark instead of dim. Glancing over at the drawn blinds and pearl white drapes, she confirmed her suspicion that it was still too early in the morning for the sun to have yet risen. A satisfied sigh escaped her as she looked around the room in the twilight—it was pleasantly familiar, as always. After a moment, her gaze settled on the digital clock that lay beside her bed on the corner table; it bleeped quietly from four-forty-four in the morning to four-forty-five.
On a Monday morning, that meant Mary still had at least an hour to sleep. Waking up prematurely like this wasn't something she minded though; in fact, she usually loved to wake up briefly just to go back to bed. There was something calming to her about drifting back to sleep just after dreaming peacefully. That, and she could never forget constantly being woken up during her short time in the Canadian military.
This time was different from usual, though. The bed felt absolutely gross from the sweat. She, or possibly Stan, had sweat so much that the bed was simply uninhabitable. On top of that, the movement from before had woken Mary right up, even to the point of stifling her usual morning yawn. So, going back to sleep wasn't the order for right then.
Mary prepared herself to get out of bed and start her day. Absently, she smacked her lips and felt around her mouth. The all-too-familiar tangy blanket of morning breath was there... But more than that, her whole mouth felt weird, teeth and all. She thought back, trying to remember if she and Stan had anything to drink the night before. No, that's not it... she considered. Though the evening had been eventful.
Mary glanced at the dim outlines of family pictures adorning the walls, all while trying to jog her memory of the day before. She decided she was definitely getting a bizarre feeling—that is, besides the sweat she could feel drenching the sheets beneath her. In fact, she recalled the feeling as the same one she had gotten the day before.
Again...? Mary wondered from her spot on bed. Deja vu... She felt as though she were forgetting something. Hmph, what else is new?
Mary put the oddity out of mind, moving on to frown over just how incredibly warm the room still was. It's like a furnace... did Anna turn up the heat last night? With one foot, she kicked the blanket further off of herself, leaving it to drape over just her left leg. It must have been stuck, her leg had felt odd, or stiff, when she had done that.
She felt her husband roll over beneath the covers beside her, before mumbling from the movement.
Hmph, Mary thought. First he overheats the bed until it's a sauna, and then he sleeps on the covers. Just like a man to do that. The thoughts forced a tired breath out of her. I gotta get up before I bake alive...
As Mary sat up, a distinct and foreign feeling of discomfort arose in her back. She could have ignored that, unlike Stan's shifting about, but trying to stretch or crick whatever caused it didn't work. After several attempts, the feeling of strangeness wouldn't subside; it didn't hurt, just felt... very strange. A niggling in her mind began to addle her as a result of the feeling.
Mary let her head fall back against the pillow with a thud; beside her, Stan harrumphed in his sleep. He was still asleep though—she could always tell. Years of practice made her a proficient expert in predicting his sleeping habits. For instance, there were times when he couldn't fall asleep or find rest easily. That came and went, but on occasion it caused her to worry—she always believed it to be linked to his occupations. Either way, now didn't seem to be one of those times.
Quietly, Mary rolled over so her eyes could linger on the dark lump of blankets which made up her husband. When he was prone and unaware like that, she usually just wanted to jab him with something. What causes that, I wonder? she pondered absently, just on the verge of amusement, and smirked to herself from the thought. Instead of quietly chuckling in accompaniment, she surprised herself when a sniffle came from her nose.
Mary loved her husband, despite what he occasionally put her through, almost to the point of tears—even at five in the morning.
What would I do without you, Stan? Humming contentedly, Mary ran a hand over his shoulder.
She stopped, and frowned. That didn't feel right... Still frowning, she pushed herself up on an elbow, then tried again. She couldn't feel the sheet this second attempt either. Her eyes squinted through the darkness, straining to see what she was sure she should be feeling—the warmth of Stan's broad shoulder under the bedspread. The lack of sensation in her digits definitely made it seem... as if they weren't even there.
It seemed, that for some reason which Mary couldn't identify, she could not feel her fingers. She touched Stan's shoulder a third time and felt... nothing.
Puzzled, Mary reached up and ran her hand over her own face.
Mary's breath caught, and her other arm moved up to join the first. Still somewhat drunk from sleep, she was unable to process properly what she was feeling. Her fingers, it seemed, had really ceased to be there, or were stuck in balled up fists. The moment she had thought of the possibility, she concentrated on what it obviously was: a dream.
So, why am I dreaming about having rocks for hands...? Being sleep addled, the thought came to her without much clarity. Mary blinked several times and looked around the room again in an attempt to focus. She decided it was incredibly real for a dream. Even after her eyes became better adjusted, she couldn't make out much in the room though. Her palm hovered right before her face, but her hand was little more than a vague outline. Even wiggling her fingers, they didn't cast a shadow for her to see. It was unsettling that she couldn't see them, even if it was obviously just the dark to blame.
But it didn't help that she couldn't feel them, either.
Alright, Mary, there's an explanation. You're obviously having a very freaky, vivid dream. Just pinch yourself and wake up. Pinching always works, you'll wake right up. Mary concentrated on making the reassurances to herself sound convincing. Reaching down, her entirely-too-numb hand found her leg and gave it a pinch through her night dress.
After a moment, when the pinch from her fingers never came, Mary growled angrily. Her hand still felt too solid, and very smooth on her leg, not like her hand should. She swallowed and focused on the alien sensation, unable to understand it; she quickly gave up trying to.
Darnit! I want to wake up! In irritation, Mary reached up and whacked her own head soundly—it didn't matter what she had to do, she just wanted to escape. The strike proved to be sharp and painful, as if with a baton, just like she wanted. Unwanted, however, was the effectiveness of the self-infliction.
Mary whimpered and gingerly touched the punished spot on her brow. The act had told her something, at least. That was definitely real. she wondered, still wincing with half of her face. So I'm not dreaming, what's wrong with my hands then?
Mary tried to think of explanations, and one idea rang with some truth: it had to be that she had fallen asleep on her arms. Doing so would, in fact, make her whole limbs go numb. Moving them or feeling anything with them would be impossible. She frowned in the dark and started shaking her arms to work feeling back into them. I've never fallen asleep on both arms, before... and why can I only not feel my hands? Infuriatingly, the strange sensations which she couldn't identify around her palm refused to go away, and her digits remained rogue and unresponsive. Flexing her hands proved fruitless, as did running her hand across the bed spread. Oddly, there were no telltale pins and needles, either.
There has to be an answer! While Mary thought, Stan groused sleepily next to her once again.
Mary licked her lips while contemplating things; a moment later, she half realized that she had felt something odd. Sticking her tongue out again, she licked her upper lip. A fuzzy texture presented itself from the act, causing her tongue to suck back into her face in an instant, shock adorning her face. Why is my... lip... like that? Her hands rose up in the midst of this new distraction, simultaneously trying to work out the unanswerable conundrums that kept popping up. Unconsciously, she decided that a heavier touch was needed to get sense back in her digits.
Mary tried tapping them together, while also working out the lip mystery. I've never ever had to wax my face before, so what could it b— Her thoughts came to a full stop, cut off by her other experiment, which had made a loud clop sound of some sort.
Mary gasped and looked down at her hands. The resulting noise had also caused her to fall back onto the bed while looking down in panic at her vaguely defined limbs. Hurriedly, she sat back up to stare through the void of shadows at them, confused beyond all reproach.
While her mind still sat on the noise her hands had made, she picked up on yet another abstract sensation, that her center of gravity was off...
No... Mary thought. It's completely and entirely out of whack. What is going on with my body!? Hesitantly, she raised one arm up to feel around her very oddly, weightless chest. She stopped short though, instead, and put the numb appendage back onto the bed sheets. Nothing feels right, anyway, so why should I bother? I must be incredibly sick, which... figures. She sighed, thinking about the implications of being so sick she was feeling strange sensations. We can't afford ridiculous medical bills right now... Somehow the thought of life's recent miseries actually helped her focus. At least that was normal, she decided.
Her tongue licked her lip again briefly, reminding her of its strange texture.
"What the hell- heck? Alright, just stay calm, it- it's time to get up, anyway." Mary's head shook from side to side while she reassured herself aloud. She felt the braid left in from last night hanging off the back of her head. It offered some small comfort to her thanks to its familiarity. A few quick breaths were inhaled, then exhaled, before she finally swung her legs off the side of the bed, her nightgown shifting around unbidden as a result.
Huffing impatiently, Mary tugged at the stubborn clothing that fought to lag behind; her frustration was building quick. Stan if you don't get off of my gown I'm gonna... She managed to put her leaden hand down on the clothing before lashing out at her unconscious husband. Of course, it didn't grip the article as she willed it to, being numb. After a quick, slightly frantic idea, she quickly wrapped her hand up the dress, then gave the cloth a good yank. It came free without a fuss; in fact, it felt like it hadn't been stuck, anyway.
Instead of being stuck, Mary realized, her clothing seemed too big, or loose. It dangled well past her legs and over the side of her bed. She kicked her legs a little; she was practically swimming in the gown's length.
Mary didn't wait to figure out or think of why her clothing had changed, or at least felt like it had changed. Becoming anxious, she slid off the bed, ready for the expectantly short drop to the floor; she wasn’t short, it was just an annoyingly tall bed fit for accommodating her tall husband. "I really hope that something from over the counter stuff will—"
Rather than an easy landing, Mary fell face first on the floor, letting out a squawk of surprise. Her elbow immediately flared up with pain from hitting the hardwood floor.
What on Earth— What happened? Mary thought angrily, completely surprised. After she had hopped off of the mattress, her body had somehow pitched itself forwards. Her hand had, of course, shot up immediately to stop herself, but with nothing working as it should, it hadn't helped. The long distance to the floor had mysteriously appeared, and felt... very jarring, not to mention there was no sensible explanation for it at all.
"Oww..." Mary rolled over and winced in pain, cradling her arm. What was that all about? The bed isn't that tall, did I m-miss...? She pushed herself up to her apparently useless knees, which now felt like everything else: inexplicably weird. Do... Do I have shoes on or something? Her mind reached for something to explain the sensations. Reaching back, her hand touched something solid and clunked audibly. She angrily realized her toes were just as numb as her hands. Oh my- Is this some kind of sick joke? First my hair, now this. She leaped up to her feet, getting fed up.
Mary's stance was stable for a moment, then, she wobbled. Everything felt very unstable and wrong all of a sudden, and she began to tip over for no reason that was apparent. Her arm found the bed's side-table and caught its side, supporting her body to keep from falling a second time.
That was too close... Mary let out a relieved breath from preventing another fall, but more sensations continued to crop up. What the hell? does my head feel strange too? Or is that my neck? The pieces to her body felt almost out of place. Despite this, they went on unbidden out of necessity, eager to get some medication or somewhere in the light.
Mary leaned forward and awkwardly pushed down on the door handle to her bedroom, opening her last obstacle. Leaning more on the table in an attempt to keep herself steady, however, caused her rock-like hand to slip without any warning. "No-!" she cried out quietly, then fell unceremoniously into her workroom. Several quick steps were taken in an attempt to catch herself, but proved useless. She fell forward toward the floor... and landed in a half standing, half leaning on the ground sort of position.
Her hands, somehow, hit the floor with a thunk. Oh thank... goodness?
The stance Mary was in all of a sudden felt uncomfortably... comfortable, to her, almost as if it were natural. That didn't make sense at all, because all four of her limbs were now on the floor. It didn't make any sense at all; she knew that people just couldn't stand on all fours the way she was right at that moment.
Mary gulped with some difficulty, and realized she was nearly panting now, likely from her building panic and the constant stream of night time oddities, this one topping them all. She ceased thinking altogether and began trying to force her body to try work in some way that was familiar; trying to stand up again took considerable effort.
One thought managed to form, though, while she swayed in her attempt at standing upright. "Have I been drugged?" Mary asked aloud to herself, shaking her head. Meanwhile, she succeeded in standing upright, but only just. Panicking isn't helping, Mary. Just get to the mirror and figure things out. She needed light, she realized, and no semblance of reality was going to present itself shrouded by the dark. Her neck turned and looked around at the shadows while her breathing remained unsteady.
The nightgown was too big, she realized; her eyes confirmed it—in the darkness her clothing stood out like a white glow.
Mary did her best to hike up the veritable sheet engulfing her legs, then took a step. Adding to her escalating fear, the leg didn't quite move the way it was supposed to. In fact, it sort of pulled upwards and kicked out, as if her knee or perhaps her hip had been disfigured; something felt different, but she couldn't figure out what.
"Is every part of my body on the fritz?" Mary questioned the night air angrily, while also wondering if she should have gotten Stan up to help her. Thoughts of the day before and all of the strange health symptoms she had been exhibiting floated into her mind. "God, what is wrong with me?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, marching stiffly through her own home.
Mary staggered forward with success out into the living room, her arm reaching out for anything close enough to help her support her wobbling body. I don't feel sick, I'm not dizzy, is there something damaged in my spi-? The thoughts sliced off at their very tip. The hall light from upstairs allowed her to see something for the first time since she had awoken that morning, something more than just a dark blob.
Mary entered a state of shock, while her sights locked onto two lightly colored things hanging out from below her gown. If she was crazy, and she wasn't she would have told anyone that asked that her feet looked like hooves. Perhaps odder still were her arms, which were a matching color, and looked as though they were covered in fur.
After a minute of wide eyed staring, Mary ever so slowly looked up again. A reaction to what she had seen was not forthcoming in her head.
The strangely cream-streaked hair Mary had been cursed with had fallen forward and covered her vision. She didn't brush it away; it was actually all that kept her from screaming—even as new and alien as the hair was, the streak itself was something familiar, something concrete.
Mary shuddered out the breath she'd been holding, and once again picked up her staggering gait. I need to get to the mirror, she thought with fervor. It was either through sheer will or perhaps transcendent disbelief that enabled her movement at all.
Mary touched her “hand” to the bathroom's closed doorknob.
No, that isn't my hand. What is on my arm!? Mary couldn't get the knob to turn, her not-hand was useless. The breathing she managed became heavy and ragged, hysteria edging in to replace shock. The door defiantly remained shut despite her efforts, so she leaned against the obstacle for leverage.
Mary almost collapsed despite the support, her feet sliding beneath her on the hardwood floor. One hand wasn't enough, she realized, and let the rest of her bunched nightgown fall from her shaking grasp. Both of her “hands” wrapped around the door knob with difficulty.
Finally, the elaborate clicks of a small and simple mechanism became audible. There was a loud bang from the door finally swinging open, followed by the sound of her body thumping against the bathroom floor.
The body parts at Mary's command were driving home in earnest how unfamiliar they actually were. Frantic as she was, her thoughts and mind were blank. She bent inward on her body, suddenly sobbing and shivering. Her stump-ended arms reached down to feel for toes that weren't there.
Mary opened her eyes, not even aware that she had even closed them, then looked down. Her arms jerked up the nightgown. The distant light, coming from the second floor, cast itself over two, misshapen legs, covered in fur, which were in place of her normal, long, smooth ones. Her eyes hazed over with tears as she took in the sight, but couldn't manage to look away.
I'm dreaming. Mary turned over shakily and pushed herself up. I know I'm dreaming. I have to be dreaming. As Mary stood up, her front legs banged against the marble counter-top in the bathroom, which was somehow much taller. This isn't real, whatever is going on right now, it's a prank. Bobby's pulling a prank with Herbert, like the time with the honey and— Her clunky hand found the light switch; the room was bathed in a clear, white light, while her eyes quickly sought out the mirror.
...
Mary stared at her reflection.
Twenty minutes passed, with Mary staring at herself, willing her reflection to change the entire time. The only change, however, was that a little more of the sun's presence had come through the bathroom's window. Motes of random house-dust floated through the morning light, which in turn glowed off of orange fur covering her face.
In the reflection, Mary's gown hung slightly askew over one of her thinly furred shoulders. She began to stare at it, but didn't scream, though the urge to hung in her mind like a sticky note reminding her to pick up bread. In fact, Mary hardly blinked at her reflection. Instead, she merely looked back at the creature standing just as she was, sharing the bathroom with her. It had the same eyes and braided hair as her. Everything in the glass was the same as it was around her. It was odd, she thought, that she couldn't see herself anywhere in the mirror.
After so much time had passed, Mary's cheeks twitched slightly; her mouth curved at its very corners into a slight smile. For the first time in the brighter light, she looked down. Her nightgown lay flat against the furred chest in front of her eyes. On the floor, it pooled slightly around where her feet should be. She was shorter, somehow, it seemed, which further drove home just how surreal everything felt.
Somehow, she realized, what she was seeing was real.
Mary took a deep breath. When she couldn't fit any more air into her lungs, she still pushed more in, and held it. The pressure built in her head and her vision dimmed. With her eyes clamped closed, she slowly let the anxiety ridden breath of air escape through her nose. She wanted to cry, but instead, she just kept her eyes shut while she stood there. It hurt a bit around her hips. Well of course it does dear, you're a- No, no, no, I'm not going to finish that thought. She avoided thinking anything that acknowledged anything since she had woke up.
In fact... Mary began to consider...
It isn't true, it's just a funny idea I must have come up with after I woke up. This entire thing is made up and none of it is real. A small smile made its way onto her expression, while her eyes stayed shut. I am Mary Morris, maiden name Fontaine. I'm a person. A person who in fact lives in the real world. Somewhere that nothing crazy or inexplicable ever happens. The thoughts were working, building some confidence within her. Nothing except for maybe a few things, like legends and ghost stories or even religion... But those can't be proven. They exist on faith, not like a woman suddenly waking up as a... weird animal, she concluded. Which is something that cannot, under any circumstance, ever happen.
Satisfied, Mary nodded to herself, her eyes still clamped shut. ...It has to be drugs, bad ones. Her mind couldn't conjure up any other explanation, but she felt somewhat relieved all the same. Drugs will wear off, eventually...
Satisfied, Mary finally, and slowly, opened her eyes. At once, they looked again at the mirror and saw the same image of an orange looking horse-thing, as they had before. They also took in just how real the image seemed.
Hearing stories about drugs, Mary had always imagined there would be more swirling colors or distortions—maybe the smell of purple wafting in the air. Cautiously, she winked, and the image returned to her the closing of one, over-sized, dark green eye. It was so remarkable she at once thought she had imagined it. Next, still leaning on the counter, she reached out a hoof to tap the glass. The reflection copied her still, while the feeling of a solid, hoof-like thing touching glass made its way up her arm.
Mary resisted gasping and instead addressed the situation appropriately. "Oh God, this is nuts." At the same time as she spoke, the slightly jutting, rounded mouth on the creature moved as well. Her gaze lingered quietly for a moment on the mirror, then she hastily proclaimed, "I gotta get Stan and tell him to call poison control."
As Mary took a single step back from the counter, her left hoof thing clicked on the tile in the bathroom. She winced and looked at the source of the noise on accident, then regretted her eyes glimpsing the sight and immediately shut them, muttering a curse. "It's not there... Not really there..."
Finally, after Mary tore one last disbelieving look from the mirror, she started for her bedroom, and for her husband. Clothing hiked up once more, she watched her legs and their footfalls carefully, not at all confident with them while under the effects of powerful, mind altering substances. It was difficult enough walking around drugged without her gown getting in her way, but looking like a weird animal made it all the worse.
Am I actually crawling? Mary thought, taking another careful, shaky step. Is that why my dress is longer? She pondered what might actually be happening outside of her skewed perception during the short journey to her bedroom.
Being quiet wasn't easy, but Mary didn't want to wake or worry the kids, so she tried her best. However, as she drew near to her room's entrance she called out in a frightened tone without abandon. "Stan!?" Despite the light from behind her, it was strangely dark inside the bedroom. Half limping, she fell towards the doorway; her left hoof caught herself from falling flat completely. Now leaning against the door frame, she blinked rapidly and called again. "Stan..." The room was dark before, but upon Mary's return it seemed to have become a literal pit of blackness. Her vision must have darkened it further; her eyelids felt really heavy all of a sudden, too.
Stan lifted his head after something, probably his wife, woke him up. "...Hm? ...Mary?" He called out quietly over his shoulder, but didn't get an answer right away. "Are you alright?" Looking behind himself, he saw the vacant bedspread that should be occupied.
At the doorway, dizziness and nausea came over Mary without warning, and she fought the new feeling in order to remain standing. She called out again, hearing Stan, while the feeling of sickness got worse. "I- to you call need... poisnnn..." Slurring, her voice faded out, and she collapsed into a heap in the doorway.
Stan heard his wife's voice again, sure enough, but she sounded really quiet. Just afterwards, he heard a thud, and flung the sheets off himself without waiting to call out again. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he ran around the bed. "Are you alright!? Hey-" He stopped, finding that there was a dark shape in the doorway. "Mar-?" He reached out to his wife's shape, fear already building. "What the!?" His hand met fur, and he jumped back in surprise; it was an animal, for certain, except they didn't have any pets. "Mary! You out there!?" he called out over the shape. "...Love?"
While Stan spoke, eyes locked on the floor, his hand slid under the bed spread and found the side-arm, a forty-five, that he kept there. "Are you alright?" he called again. After a moment, he still didn't hear a response, but he swore he'd just heard her voice just a moment ago. Still confused, the man considered if it had been a dream. Could I have dreamt that up? he asked himself.
Stan called out a third time, knowing his first job before anything else was to keep his family safe. "Mar, there's a critter that's made it into the house! Just stay in the kitchen!" He looked down at the bedside digital clock at the same time that his hand found the magazine under the side-table drawer. Without looking away from the shape, he carefully clicked on the light for the room and undid the combination trigger lock on his pistol. She's gotta be here somewhere. Whatever it was on the floor twitched slightly, prompting Stan to level the gun down at the shape. What is it, a dog? His thoughts were sleep addled and his vision a little blurry from the coma-like rest he usually undertook. He reached up to rub his eyes, one back of a hand trying to rid them of the handicap.
Mary steadily slid her eyelids open and saw Stan backing up to the end of a bed post. She tried to speak. "S-Stan?"
"Mary? Hey, go back! Get into the kitchen or go upstairs and check on the kids, there's a wild animal in here!" Stan tried to catch sight of his wife, but couldn't and figured she must have been around the corner of the den. From the edge of his vision, he saw the animal on the floor shifting its limbs under its head, as if trying to get comfortable. He crouched and moved to keep his eyes locked with it this time. There was no telling how dangerous it was. It's big too, too big to be a dog... Wait, is that a... a pony?
After a moment of quiet study in the yellow bedroom light, Stan added to his last thought. ...That is the weirdest pony I have ever seen in my life. His eyebrows raised as they evaluated the strange creature's body further.
Stan had raised a horse in his youth on Herbert's farm, chickens too. They weren't farmers, and it had been a hobby just to keep from buying eggs all the time, but as a result he became no stranger to what he thought of as normal animals. This one, however, looked nothing like what he remembered. On the floor, the bizarre creature looked up at him suddenly, its too-human mouth lolling open drunkenly. Its eyes peered at him, but it did not stare like an animal. No, there was too much... character, evident in its expression; it almost seemed human.
Mary slowly got her eyes open, then smiled weakly at the sight of her husband. He'd been speaking, she thought, but she couldn't focus on it. "Oh... thank heavens, I need... you to..." Her world dimmed again, then her body sagged despite her best efforts to rise. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, refusing to move anymore, too.
Stan's eyes widened, watching in disbelief as the strange animal before him spoke. Calmly, he thought about what he'd just seen and heard... what he had heard was his wife, Mary. Somehow, the animal had spoken with her voice. Could have been her still in the den talking, he told himself. Just oddly timed... But, it was what he had seen which shook him, and no explanation popped into his brain as he watched the slumping pony's head fall onto the floor. The animal was smiling at him; it was his wife's smile, calm and tranquil as if the world's worries couldn't touch her. Stan could never mistake that smile; it always filled him with contentment and a twinge of sadness. Nothing else made him feel like that smile did, and Mary only smiled like that when she looked at him.
Stan stared at the once-again still shape on the floor for several minutes. Its hair matched his wife's and it was wearing her nightgown, too. Every part of him felt that this was the most elaborate prank that anyone had ever pulled on him. Probably Herbert, he thought. But, he didn't really think his father would have gone to such lengths as putting a farm animal in his wife's clothes, just to boggle his mind like this.
Stan knelt, trying to get a look at the thing's face from a safe distance. It certainly didn't look like any horse he had ever seen. Its face was round and flat across the front, a great deal like a person's. The muzzle only protruded slightly, and the face and eyes held the undeniable vestige of a readable expression. Overall, it lacked all of the qualities anyone would expect from an animal; it was something he had never seen before.
Warily and with caution, Stan slowly made his way over to the mystery animal lying in the doorway. He stayed crouched, slowly moving closer, then poked it with his pistol.
The odd looking creature didn't move.
Stan looked up wearing a frown, then rubbed one hand over his short beard. With one hand, he poked the animal's shoulder, unable to believe it was even real. After it didn't move, he shouted, "Mar this isn't funny! Answer me and let me know you're alright!"
Mary's voice answered him quickly, and from much closer than he expected it would. "Mmm, fine... tirred... c-could I get a glass of water? I don't feel so good... floor's cold... too..."
Stan's eyes widened; while sustaining his expression of shock, he panned down to look at the animal.
Mary's breath came heavily, and she was dimly aware she was on the ground, but confused as to why. "Stan...?" she asked weakly. "What's wrong?"
The air around Stan suddenly felt very oppressive while watching the animal talk up close. His own chest tightened after it stopped speaking; it was definitely the source of his wife's voice.
But how? he thought, blinking, then noticed in the dim light that the colorful pony had his wife's new hair color, in addition to everything else. What was happening had to be a dream, Stan decided, a very real one. The pony's eyes closed, again, and it breathed raggedly. You're dreaming, Stan, imagining things. He reached a hand down and poked its chest; things certainly felt completely real to him and not dream-like at all.
Stan Morris thought of himself as a practical man, a very grounded man, if not quite a paragon of human sensibility. Still, he didn't hurt others unless it was to protect himself or his family, and when it came to being a father, he always did what he felt was best. He didn't entertain flights of fancy in that equation, either. He dealt with the real: Drill and Ceremony in the military, paperwork and court in law enforcement, but not dreams or anything that qualified as one. So, put frankly, he didn't know what to do.
What Stan could do, however, was get up and walk into the kitchen. He put on his pistol's safety and stood up to get a glass of water for the... What is it, a dream representation of Mar? He didn't know how to answer his own question.
Stopping at the refrigerator tap, Stan filled one glass, then after some hesitation he poured himself one as well. I'm not dreaming, though. His face remained stern and unchanged as he left the kitchen. The liquor cabinet loomed off to his side in the dining room, and after glancing at it for a moment, he dumped the second glass of water out on the floor and refilled it with scotch instead. All the while, his pistol hung heavily from one finger by the trigger well. Walking again, he stopped to look at the stairs. I need to check on the kids. He thought on doing so for a few moments, but decided against getting them involved. They'll be fine.
Stan had a feeling that whatever was going on, it was complicated, but very real. I'm not dreaming and my wife's voice was... I would know if I'm dreaming. Sure enough the dim shape, half fallen in his bedroom, was still laying there around the corner. He had been half sure in his gut that it wouldn't be there by the time he got back; that it shouldn't be there. I also know I'm not on drugs. A part of him wished he didn't possess the background to tell for certain whether or not he was hallucinating in a drugged state.
Stan reached, and began to crouch next to the animal in his bedroom. "Mar...?" he said quietly, then stopped his descent at a kneeling posture after hearing himself. He had just addressed the horse-thing with his wife's name. Squinting his eyes shut, he tried to think everything through. A part of himself half expected to be back in bed when he opened them.
The shape answered him, instead.
"Oh... Stan, I just had the weirdest, and I mean the weirdest dream." Mary kept her eyes closed and drug her arms up under herself. Whatever her head had been resting on, it was rock hard.
Stan watched the pony answering him back, paying attention as its mouth moved in time with the words. It was truly an exercise in staying calm for him. He sat with a plop beside it and his pistol clunked on the ground next to him. The danger apparently nonexistent, the situation was now simply his own confusion. What should I do next? His eyes searched the room and his face turned to worry. Those thoughts he'd had before ran over the fact that he had already concluded this was all... real. All he managed to do was gulp.
"I got you your... water," Stan said calmly.
Mary smacked her lips absently and pushed herself up. Strangely, her head felt as if it were stuffed with cotton. Wait, why am I on the floor? The floor felt really uncomfortable.
Mary could see Stan out of the corner of her eyes; they turned with the rest of her head towards him, the memory of drugs returning in a flash as she did.
"Oh God, Stan, listen to me!" Her hooves, which were obviously a hallucination, came up and pressed against her husband's chest. Wha- why would he flinch back? she thought. Her breathing became panicked, mostly from just how frightened he looked. "You need to call poison control, honey. Just stay calm. I'm alright. Now, I know this is going to sound weird..." She lowered her head to look down at one upheld hoof, "But I look like a... a... Well you wouldn't believe me if I told you. God, how could this happen...? Stan? Did you hear? I think I've been poisoned!"
Stan sat there as the pony spoke with perfect clarity, pressing him back against the doorway. His mouth hung open in disbelief until he finally answered, "Mar...?" His question hung in the air.
Mary's breath caught. Oh, Lord no. She sat back letting her weird front legs fall to the floorboards with a clop. Doing so felt like the weirdest posture, ever. "Ye-yes Stan, it's me," she said, quietly answering her husband. Getting scared, she watched his eyes search her face in disbelief. His hands were shaking; she knew his hands never shook. One of them reached up to her face and cupped it gently.
To Stan, her face felt... Soft. Silky. He ran his hand up passed one strangely shaped ear and his fingers intermingled with the braided hair. It was a little damp, as if she had been sweating. Again, like before, it was his wife's hair. "You... You look like a pony," he mumbled, and reached down cautiously for the glass of water beside himself. Carefully, he held it up to her.
Mary stared with a dumbfounded expression at the clear glass of water her husband was holding out to her.
After a moment, her face smiled weakly, and she guffawed. "S-Stan, that's not possible," she said matter of factly, stumbling just a little over his name. "How do you know that? I didn't tell you what I thought I looked like." Her husband stared down at a glass of something without looking up or answering.
"Oh, great," Mary exclaimed in understanding. "I'm still dreaming! This all feels so real, too. I can't believe any of this. What's causing it-?" She stopped short, spotting something dark on the floor in the corner of her eye; she turned to face it. "Stan, why's the pistol out?" Stan followed her eyes to look down at his side-arm along with her. After a moment passed, she almost thought he wouldn't answer her with the way his face looked.
"Mar," Stan began to respond. "You're not dreaming. I know I'm awake, at least."
Leaning over, Stan set down the water, since Mary hadn't taken it, then picked up the weapon and stood up off the floor. He cut to the chase and gulped his scotch down in one go, too; he didn't have to work later, anyway.
How could that be Mar, though? Stan's face wrinkled in thought. "I had the pistol out because I thought you were an animal that had gotten inside the house." Despite his best efforts, he could not directly look at his wife. Speaking to her while looking like... that, was disquieting.
Mary tried to work her mouth and get a word in, but couldn't make a sound.
Stan continued. "And we aren't poisoned or on drugs... not by any kind I know of."
Mary stared silently, unable to do much else. Absently, she realized her head only came up to Stan's waist, and that she was still sitting down on the floor. Shakily, she lifted herself off the floor to stand up, her hooves pressed against the door's frame for support.
"Stan, this has to be a dream!" Mary exclaimed, slightly hunched from the difficulty of standing up. "What else could it b- Ah!" She got up too fast and her dress caught under her step, pulling her back down. Just before she hit the floor, Stan's arms had clasped under her front legs; he hoisted her up to stand up straight. "Oh, thank you," she murmured breathlessly. Even with the help from Stan, she felt unsteady, even doing her best to keep balanced.
Together, they stood there in an awkward silence. One of Stan's hands slid down Mary's arm. It wrapped around her hoof gently, and gave it a squeeze. She watched him do so and gritted her teeth, she could feel the panic and fear from earlier, gushing back towards her.
"This is real, Mary," Stan said darkly.
As he spoke, Mary started crying.
"I'm not dreaming and neither are you," Stan went on.
Mary felt her strength give out, and she dangled there from her husband's arms. Him holding onto her was all that kept her from falling. After a moment, she pushed her head against him and wrapped her front legs around his stomach.
Stan could only stare down at his wife in disbelief and worry. Even as the words left his mouth, his mind reeled. He stroked her hair and held her tight, as best as he could. She inhaled and choked out sobs, words were muttered here or there. He could make out pleas, explanations and more, but nothing that sounded convincing. His own thoughts were a tangle, too, barely allowing him to understand.
They stood there, together, Stan half out into space with Mary clinging to him as though he were her lifeline.
Mary was stilling leaning against him when she spoke; her face felt damp and matted, likely from tears, she thought. "What am I going to do, Stan? What's even happened to me?" Her voice sounded surprisingly steady. "Am I being punished? Is something like this possible and we've just never heard about it?" She pushed away from his grip, but he kept holding onto her arms. "What about the kids? Stanley... oh, my God. I just... I don't know." When she didn't say anything else, he pulled her back.
"I... I don't know how to answer any of those questions, Mar. I do know, however, that you have never done anything you could ever be rightfully punished for. The kids'll be fine, we just need to not... panic. Maybe there's a weird hallucinogen in the area or something? I dunno... we'll watch the news. I'll check in on the kids too, actually." Mary squeezed him tighter as he spoke. "So, no panicking. I'm here for you just like you're here for me. We always are." Stan let her down and she slowly let go of his torso. She wavered but managed to keep standing.
He continued. "Are you going to be alright? I think you should wait here, just in case. We don't know what we're dealing with, Mar. Let's just try and play things as safely as we can." He tried to keep his face and voice sounding sure of himself, but he could still feel his face wrinkle in confusion as he tried to think of what to do.
Mary stood there, upright, and supposedly was listening. After a moment, she let out an exasperated breath and fell to the floor with a dull thud.
Stan moved forward to catch her legs again in a flash, but only made it as far as crouching; Mary had already landed on her front legs. Frowning, she looked up at him with a sad look. "I-it's uncomfortable to stand up..." she said, stuttering. "Standing upright, I mean." Quietly, she gulped and ceased meeting his worried eyes. It was difficult for her to bare any sort of acknowledgment like this, even from her own husband. Instead, she looked at the clock.
Even in her current emotional state, Mary felt a twinge of familiar panic from having to get everyone where they needed to go on time. It was currently six-twenty-five in the morning, making it well past their normal start routine.
Stan followed her gaze and eyed the clock, too. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke until it bleeped into claiming it was now six-twenty-eight.
"You and the kids will be late, Stan." Mary spoke with a flat expression, her throat dry. Absently, she recalled the glass of water, still on the floor.
"Right...” Stan replied, “I'll go take care of everything. I'm gonna call in, today. Just... wait here in the bed, Mary. I don't think you should be up and about right now, just in case." Her face and appearance were the most distraught that he had ever seen them.
On the inside, Stan realized just how badly his words implicated the worst. He didn't want to take any chances, though, for this whole situation was beyond belief. "I'll be right back. Just call if you feel like you're in any pain, Mar. Or anything, at all. I'm going to shut the door... is that alright?" He got up while talking and finished speaking as he stood in the doorway. For a moment, he just lingered. Normally under an umbrella of despair like this one, he would kiss his wife. Or at least hold her again.
Mary stared up at him from the ground. "Yeah... I'll be right here, Stan." She looked around at the room that was seemingly to be her prison. The defeated expression she slowly began to wear drooped, until it settled solemnly on the floorboards.
Stan's own hands twitched in indecision before he slowly turned and walked out of the room. There was an urge in him to say something, comfort her, do anything. Instead, he slowly clicked the bedroom door shut behind himself. I gotta figure something out. Settling on a decision over what to do wasn't easy, but he decided to get the kids out of the house so he could think. As quickly as he could without causing an earthquake, he bolted upstairs to get his kids up and ready; ensuring they weren't late for school wasn't a large victory, but it was something.
Gently, for Stan anyway, he knocked on his son's door. After a few seconds of unresponsive silence, he opened it and poked his head in. "Time to get up, Bobby. I want you to make sure your sister gets up, too."
Bobby's disheveled head arose with a groan from a sea of blankets. "Dad, I don't have school today. I was suspended, remember?"
Stan stared at his son; he'd forgotten about that. Recovering, he answered Bobby without pause.
"I know, but you're still getting up so I can find something for you to do." Stan pulled the door shut to prevent any protesting or arguing, then headed back for the stairs at a quick pace. I gotta come up with a way to get Bobby out of the house. Maybe take him to Agnes'...
Stan strode barefoot across the living room to his den and picked up the phone. The next thing he needed to take care of was his own obligation to work. Hurriedly, he punched in the number of the county police station, namely the desk sergeant's office number. His deputies wouldn't be in to the station for a while yet.
The phone rang a few times before a flat, obnoxious voice answered. "Yahp, who's callin'? Make it quick, I'm busy."
"Dan?..." Stan asked in utter confusion, recognizing the voice. "Dan, why are you at the desk? Where's Merrill? She's supposed to be on duty over the weekend."
The County Police and Sheriff's departments were in the same building and worked together closely. Typically that ended up causing a lot of... interesting hijinks.
"Lost a bet. Who's callin'?" Dan replied in a short tone.
Stan could hear him playing some shooting game on the other end; the phone tightened in his grip. "It's your boss, Sheriff Morris." Dan was, in fact, one of his Deputies. The man was brash, and held little attention for anything that didn't have to do with women, trucks or the MMA. Despite this, he was also a good cop. "Is that a video game I hear in the background, Dan?" Most of the time.
"Oh, crap. Uuh, morning, Sheriff, didn't expect to get a call from you on the public line... This early." Stan could hear the clatter of a controller, cups, and papers scattering in the background. "What's the problem?"
Stan let out a slow breath. "First off, I know we've talked about distractions on duty. You can read a magazine, other than that, your eyes are glued to the equipment. Second... Mary is... not feeling well. I've gotta stay back today and keep an eye on her. Tell the Judge and Chief for me."
The sound of footsteps came down the stairs and Stan turned to see Bobby already dressed, and with his hands in his pockets. He slouched his way into the dining room without seeing him, or Bobby was ignoring him.
Stan raised an eyebrow, then greeted, "Good morning."
Bobby waved over his shoulder in answer to him, then went into the kitchen wordlessly.
Sighing, Stan took his hand off the receiver and refocused on Dan speaking.
"Well, I'll tell them Stan. But... you remember that the court hearing for the Jenkins' case is today, right? I don't think you can get out of that." Stan groaned quietly and clamped his eyes shut remembering the case. Jenkins had been growing several acre's worth of pot in the forest behind his house.
He could get one of his Deputies to stand in for him, maybe not Dan, but that wasn't an option he liked. "Just do it, Dan; tell them it's a family crisis."
"Yeah, sure thing, boss. I think he's in his office right now." Stan waited for several minutes. Nearby, he thought he heard more clunks of wood coming from his relatively nearby bedroom. He stared worriedly at the door until Dan returned.
"It's no bueno, Stan." Dan sighed out a defeated breath over the phone, admitting his failure. "They said you hafta be there; your name's on all of the forms. His exact words were like, 'Stan's gotta be there, his name's on all of the forms! Blahblah, I'm fat and smell like an old person's outhouse!'"
Stan stared flatly at his desk for a moment, reflecting on Dan's colorful personality. Over the years, Stan had found it best to just ignore it as much as possible. It was best just to ignore him period, actually, and hide the guy from public eyes as much as possible. Still, he was professional enough that Stan turned a blind eye to how casual he usually was, to some extent.
Dan continued. "Eh, how bad is it, though? Maybe they can work something out. Is she in the hospital? Lemme tell them what's wrong. If it's as bad as you're making it out, then maybe this could get rescheduled or some crap."
Dan didn't sound too sure, and Stan knew why; it was a big case. Everyone had been working on it for some time. He began tapping a finger angrily on his desk, trying to think of a solution that would work for him and his family's recent... development. "That won't work, Dan," he resolved.
There was no chance he could be upfront about what had happened to Mary.
There needed to be a better solution.
Mary tried to stand up twice more on her own, and using the bed too. The once simple acts of standing on two legs, however, were no longer so simple. It was easy of her to stand up with something to lean onto, but without it... Her legs just didn't move right; standing was all she could barely manage, let alone walking.
Mary wilted and glared at her body. I'm helpless like this. What even is this? She gestured to herself angrily amidst her own thoughts. Her dress caught under her hoof again as she tried to take another step. She growled and cursed. Its too-wide neck slid down and over her shoulder, getting stuck. Despite the suddenly constrictive and now obstructive clothing, she remained upright, along with her temper.
"I've had it, with this stupid, God d-... With this dress." Mary struggled with the nightgown. Aggressively, she wrenched it up her body, then with the sound of some fabric tearing, off and over her head. The clothing landed, balled up, in the far corner of the room.
"Better..." Mary growled in satisfaction, then frowned down at her horrible body. It was covered from head to toe in fur... Head to hoof. Grimacing at the unbidden thought and tossed her head, groaning in frustration. She felt her hair's braid whip against her back, and it gained her attention.
Mary reached over her head and brought the long tail in front of her where she could see it. Dangling there in her hooves it looked just as it had when she first laid eyes on it—minus the color of course. Her mind was filled with how she had looked, with how she still wanted to look, as if just that could change her back. She was in too much shock, or disbelief to cry at the moment though. Her hooves began undoing the braid; it would need to be washed when she showered, and she needed one still. Her nose wrinkled at herself. A strange thought occurred to her, except, perhaps it wasn't under the circumstances. I smell the same at least, thank God. Uggh, I hate horses, too.
The door clattered all of a sudden and Mary jumped. Her eyes darted between it and her braid, still held in her hooves. As quietly as she could, she released her braid and lowered herself to the wooden floor.
A young girl's voice came through the door. "Mom? Are you awake?"
Mary's eyes squinted shut, immediately misty. She tried to cup her mouth with a hand, but all she had was one sorely unwelcome hoof. After biting her lip until it hurt, she then bit her furred limb, instead.
Anna spoke again, still unable to enter the room and see her mother. "Mom? I can't reach the cereal and Bobby's being a butt-head."
Mary opened her mouth to tell Anna she would be right there, on instinct alone, then closed it slowly. She stood there motionless, her mind racing for something, anything to say.
"Mom?" Anna repeated.
Listening to her daughter made Mary choke out a sob, and she began backing away from the locked door. Oh, baby, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I am sososorry I-I can't, I just can't... God why...
Soon, her daughter's footsteps quietly left the door.
Stan knuckled a hand against his forehead in order to control his temper; there were too many thoughts going on in his head in the midst of trying to find a solution.
The sound of Anna walking up behind him halted his rising anger from having to go in to work, and away from Mary. "Hey, Dad? Where's Mom? I can't find her."
Stan nearly jumped, his nerves on edge. "Wha- Oh, Anna, what's wrong?"
Anna continued. "Mom's door is locked. Why is her door locked, Dad?"
Stan glanced towards the door itself. How did I not notice her walk behind me? Girl's a regular shadow. He shook his head. "Mom's not feeling well right now, sweetie. Go and get yourself something to eat. It'll be time for school soon." Managing a weak smile, he turned his daughter gently towards the dining room and gave her a gentle nudge with a hand. Once she was out of listening distance, he went back to speaking with Dan about the situation.
"Sorry, Dan. That was my daughter. What were you saying?" Stan sighed and leaned back against his office's wall once again, still as distraught as when he had started.
Dan grunted in acknowledgment. "I was saying, if she's not in the hospital and you can't say what she's sick with, then I don't think he'll buy her life being in danger. Are you sure you aren't taking her to the hospital, boss? Can't yah at least friggin' tell me what it is? I mean, what's worth keeping a secret like this? Is Mary actually doing drugs?" Stan had throttled Dan a few times before; he'd concluded before that the guy wasn't just tactless. Clueless fit his profile better; somehow he just acted like he didn't know any better. A poor choice of words just seemed to pour out of his mouth as surely as the sun rose.
"Where did you hear that, Dan?" Stan asked calmly.
"...It's going around a few places. I heard it from Merrill." Drugs were actually a big problem in Belsdale. Even if it was just town gossip, it was insulting. Dan went on. "You want me to try asking if you can stay home, again?"
Stan's eyes clenched themselves shut in defeat. It was obvious to him that wouldn't work. "No, I gotta go in today, he's right. Even if I'm not going to be needed except for paperwork. Hey, if you hear anyone passing that around again, Dan? Get in their face. I don't care who it is, I won't let slander about my wife like that get passed around." His fist was clenched at his side. Normally, his calm never faltered, but his nerves were at the end of their wick.
Dan answered him cheerily. "Can do, sheriff! I won't be held accountable for my actions." Laughing, he continued speaking over the phone line. "So, you'll be in soon?" he asked.
Stan drew in a breath and let it out tiredly. "Yeah, I'll be there soon. Just, yeah, I'm on my way." The phone clattered onto his desk's cradle in the same moment he glanced at his watch. There was about an hour until he had to take Anna in to school. "Hey kids," he called out. "Hang tight a moment, I'll be just a minute!"
At Mary's work space, Stan stopped.
There was a huge blanket, half finished and draped over the room's cloth rack. His wife was a good seamstress, and enjoyed her quilting hobby; it was one of the few breaks from parenting that she got.
Stan rested a hand on his wife's unfinished project, then slowly looked up at her door. The last half hour had allowed his thoughts time to get a hold of themselves, but not entirely. What he had seen still wasn't any more believable now than it had been earlier, after all. His mind simply couldn't wrap around the idea.
Absently, Stan clutched the fabric beside him, still staring at the door, separating him from Mary. She's right though, what are we going to do? He steeled himself to go back in, and knocked. "Mar?"
Stan heard the latch unhook on the other side of the door. His hand wrapped around the doorknob and he pushed it open. The first thing he was was his wife, who no longer wore her nightgown, and was subsequently wearing nothing at all.
Stan stumbled, and tried to retreat back out the door. "Oh, sorry, I thought you were—"
"Just get in here..." Mary answered to him, then scowled and looked dejectedly down at the ground.
Confusion creased Stan's face. His wife was standing in the buff behind the door. Is it nudity? She's covered in fur I guess... Well, this thought is never going to not be weird, he painfully surmised. He turned when he heard his wife curse. Behind him, Mary fumbled with her hooves half standing to latch the door again.
"Here, let me." Stan smoothly reached over to help, standing beside her.
"No!" Mary cried. Stan looked down at her, surprised. "I can do it, darnit. I can do it." The latch banged over roughly. She repeated the mantra sobbing. "I can do it..." Mary sniffled and turned away. She walked on all fours from the door and further away from him. The pony that was actually his wife huddled in on herself next to a recliner. She was facing the corner, shoulders and head drooped.
"Mary—" Stan started to say to her.
Mary interrupted him. "Stop looking at me like that, please... Or at all, just... I know you are so don't look at me." Her voice was scathing and angry.
Stan's expression remained stolid, but he complied and turned around as Mary had asked. On the inside, though, his pain was twice hers. He felt her pain from loss, he was living it with her, even if he wasn't the victim. His wife was suffering, something that cut into the rigid man like a metal spike cracking a solid rock.
Mary addressed him once again, after a moment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound... I'm sorry Stan, I shouldn't have..."
Stan's arms wrapped around from behind Mary, he had swiftly crossed the floor and knelt beside her. She couldn't hold him back, but one of her hooves rested over his hands. Noisily she inhaled and cleared her throat before speaking. "Stan, what if this is contagious? What if we can't fix it? My God, what if I'm stuck like thi-" One thick finger rose and pressed gently against her muzzle.
"Mary, you've already done enough worrying for the both of us, so pay close attention to what I'm about to say: Worrying won't solve this. If it did, then everything would already be as it should, again. What I need you to do is stay calm. All we can do is look for solutions." Stan didn't like towering over her, he was grateful to be kneeling as he spoke. As he continued, Mary turned herself around in his arms to face him. "One thing at a time, love... There's no rationalizing this. Really, there isn't," He paused, his wife's strange new eyes glued to him. They were now a dark green, no longer were the two orbs the rich brown chocolate that he had fallen in love with all those years ago. "I... I don't think we should call anyone about this." Stan kept talking, but he was drowned out by Mary's internal thoughts.
But we have to get help! We have to... But what help could anyone possibly give me? Something made Mary want to argue against keeping this a secret all the same, but fear kept that quiet. She moved forward, ready to put her hands on his chest from the shock of what he had said. Only, a new realization dawned on her: she didn't have hands, she had hooves. Mary Morris was a pony and had hooves.
Instead, she stopped just short of his chest, one leg raised between them, her mouth open agape in a horror-filled expression.
I'll never be able to hold his hands, again...
The fear had come from nowhere, but it was painful nonetheless. Mary unintentionally whimpered, causing Stan to trail off. He had been speaking about the possibility of others meaning her harm. "I-I'm so sorry Stan, that this happened. I... I'm sorry that this happened to—"
"It isn't your fault, Mary, don't think that, please. Whatever caused this, it wasn't you." Mary looked up at him in anguish.
"But look at me Stan! What is this!? What am I!? How can you be so calm? How can you still even bare to look at-" Stan cut her off. She'd been becoming frantic and hysterical so he stopped her forcibly. His left hand pulled her head towards his, and he kissed her deeply; right there next to the recliner. Sobbing she tried to pull or turn away, but he held her. A hoof pressed against his chest which tried to push against him futilely. Slowly, she stopped her fight. He let go when she did, and didn't give her a chance to speak.
"I'm looking at you, I will always look at you," Stan said to her with conviction. "You're Mary, my wife. I'm calm, and the only reason I am is because despite this, you're safe. You're here in my arms, and nothing shy of God himself, not even magic is going to change that." Her head tilted, and she visibly calmed.
Mary was stubborn, but grounded. Of course all that's true, I'm such an idiot, Stanley.
"Stan..." Mary sighed and flipped her braid behind herself. Stan gave her the room he could tell she now wanted, and casually leaned back off of her. He sat on his butt on the oak floor.
"Yes, Mar?" Stan asked and smiled, she was acting in charge again, as was normal. It was the best thing he'd seen in a long time.
"Thank you, I... I know you'll always be there. I love you." After taking in a deep breath she grimaced at the floor suddenly, Stan's eyebrow quirked up at the confused face she had put on. She continued after a moment. "But please don't kiss me again while I have... fur. That felt reeeally weird."
Stan chuckled in response and nodded.
Gotta admit, never thought I'd kiss a horse. Wisely, he kept that to himself. Mary laughed too, the situation defused, momentarily. He made his face stern again, she managed to keep her smile though. It was still beautiful, he decided. "I've got to go into court hun, I tried to call in but... Circumstances with the Judge won't allow it. So I have to be there. Hey," Stan squeezed her leg with one hand. "I'll be back though, as quick as I can. I'm going to bring Bobby with me too, the house will be empty." Her eyes saddened as he spoke, but her smile didn't falter. There's nothing more you can say Stan, just be there for her. "Will you be alright here? I can just stay, the case be dam- danged."
Mary harrumphed. "Just go, Stan. I'll call if something else happens, like I grow a horn or something stupid. You're... You're right, as usual. You really are, worrying won't help me, or us. Go in and don't worry about me. I'm a big girl." She put out one hoof onto his hand, looked sadly at it, then back up at him and smiled again.
"I love you." Stan spoke resolutely.
"I know, you big-lug; I love you too." They held their gaze for a few seconds, before Mary spoke up again. "Stan...?"
"Yeah, Mar, what is it? Do you need anything before I go?" Sighing and rolling her eyes Mary got up and strode to the dresser, her four legs clunking raucously on the floorboards.
"No. Actually, you need to get dressed still. You're in your underwear." Stan's eyes looked down at himself and his white briefs and t-shirt in shock, then swore on impulse. What's more, the clock buzzed seven-thirty.
He was late.
