I was falling.
Not the normal kind of falling, where you trip down the stairs and you get back up groaning with aching bones and a painful lump on your flank. Not the physical falling. It was that strange sort of dream-like falling, where your legs are taking you wherever they really feel like, and everything that’s happening seems somehow just out of place but you can’t quite control it.
You’re not thinking. You’re just going through the motions and even insane things seem perfectly reasonable when you’re falling. And all you can do is hope the madness vanishes when you wake up.
I was falling when I burst into Sugarcube Corner with my revolver drawn.
The dream-noises echo around me. The sound of hooves on wood. The sound of heavy breathing from out-of-shape ponies. The sound of orders and shouting and anticipation. The sound of two parents gasping and heaving with anguish as officers rush through their home and up their stairs. They’re mourning for more than their loss. They’re mourning for the rape of the sanctity and safety of their home. I can’t blame them.
I was falling when Officer Rocky stormed into the room. He stumbles back, his innocence gone in a blurring second. He turns away and retches. Rookie can’t help himself. I’m smug with experience for a moment. That’s gone too when I enter the room and see how much blood there is. None of us say a word. We just stare like morons. The new guys, the smart ones who know their procedures, go to set up a perimeter or monitor the confused passersby whose normal routine has been inconveniently jostled.
I’m falling when the doctor tells me what I already know.