//------------------------------// // Wind-Up // Story: Aqualung: A Tale of Ego and Recovery // by Keatosimo //------------------------------//         The smell of Broken Broom’s apartment vaguely smelled of fresh cut mahogany. Trixie and Broken Broom walked through the doctor’s home. In the immediate vicinity, a long hallway divided the kitchen and the living room, with the bathroom adjacent to both. The bedroom was connected to the living room, the door somewhat isolated in the corner of the room. The apartment was furnished with rustic styled furniture, covering most of the furniture spectrum, from loveseats to coffee tables. Dimly lit lamps broke the haze, giving a warm glow to anything within it’s range. It was a far cry from Trixie’s fantasy of marble pillars and serfs catering to her every whim, but it was better than a park bench.         “W-well, Miss Trixie, welcome to my h-humble abode. I kn-know it’s no penthouse s-suite, but I hope it’s alright.” Broken Broom said, hoofing at the carpet.         Trixie looked around. Portraits of stern looking ponies covered the wall. A particular painting above the television caught her eye. A stallion with a blue coat and a wiry blonde mane aloofly stood next to an equally mean-looking mare with a charcoal coat topped with a voluminous fudgey mane. Standing in front of them were two foals; a colt and a filly. The colt was the spitting image of Broken Broom. Scratch that, it was Broken Broom. The small colt looked sickly, almost as if he had trouble standing up. The ocre filly looked energetic and full of life. A toothy grin was plastered on the foal’s face. She was the antithesis to Broken Broom, who barely managed a smile. Both foals’ golden locks mimicked their father’s.         “It’s wonderful, Mr. Broom.” Trixie responded, her tone flat. Broken Broom didn't notice.         “Oh, good! Now, I d-don’t have an ex-extra bedroom, b-but I d-don’t mind the c-couch.” Broken Broom returned, fiddling with some pillows on the loveseat.         Trixie was painfully tempted to just let Broken Broom take the couch, but she thought better of it. She knew that milking this out would be much more beneficial.         “Oh no, I couldn’t! Trixie is a good houseguest, and would never deprive a pony of their bed.”         A blatant lie, but it was better to start off on a good hand rather than come off as snobbish.         “I insist, Miss T-trixie. Besides, y-you need the r-rest if you want t-to feel b-better.”         Trixie nodded in agreement, allowing herself a small smirk.         “Oh, g-good. Anyways, I w-was thinking of st-starting dinner soon. How d-does soup sound?” Broken Broom asked as he trotted towards his kitchen.         Trixie shuddered. She had always viewed soup of any kind as a poor mare’s delicacy. Her disgust turned into a self-condescending chuckle. It was now her delicacy.         “That sounds wonderful.”         As Trixie had expected, Broken Broom whipped up a pot of soup relatively quickly, and had even garnished the somewhat plain brew with rosemary. Trixie had always liked rosemary. Bowls clacked on the wood table, followed by the clangs of stainless steel utensils. Broken Broom pulled out a chair and plopped onto it. Trixie stared as the stallion began to spoon knots of noodles into his mouth. Broken Broom looked up, a perplexed look distorted by noodle-stuffed cheeks.         “Whfa yu wayn forf?” He asked, bits of noodle spraying from his mouth.         Trixie looked at the chair before her and back to the still-confused doctor.         “D-do you need something?” He asked.         “Yes, I do. A gentlecolt always pulls a chair out for a lady.” Trixie replied, more snobbishly than she’d intended.         Right as Trixie realized what she had said, Broken Broom’s eyes widened as he processed the sheer gravity of his mistake. He jumped from his chair, slipping in the process. The rag doll Broken Broom slid across the polished floor, coming to a squeaking stop at Trixie’s front legs. He looked up, his face a maroon glow. A sheepish giggle was the only verbal communication he could manage. He got up, rubbing his fetlock. After a moment, he slid the chair out from under the table, and presented it to Trixie. Trixie sat without a word.         The two ate in silence. Not that it was awkward, rather there was just nothing to talk about. Trixie found herself staring at the family portrait over the television. The more she looked, the more questions she had. She figured that asking might be out of place, and that leaving it untouched is the better solution. She resumed eating her ramane, which to her surprise was one of the best things she’s ever eaten.         Broken Broom sat opposite to the mare, intently focused on consuming his bowl of soup. Ramane was a staple in his diet, being cheap and easy to make. It was a relic of his college days that never quite went away. The only downside was having to burn the calories off. He looked up at Trixie to find her staring at something. Following her gaze, his eyes met with one of the many paintings on his wall. Specifically, his family portrait.         “Like the p-painting, huh?” He asked, breaking the silence.         Trixie snapped from her daydream, and turned towards the doctor.         “Oh, uh, yes. I was just wondering about the other ponies next to you. I am to assume they are family?”         “Your assumption w-would be right.”         “Your mother is beautiful, you know.” Trixie observed.         “Th-thank you. She was always v-very sweet.”         Trixie chuckled at Broken Broom’s simple but sentimental description.         “A painting doesn’t tell the whole story, it seems.”         “Heh, she d-does look a b-bit mean. D-don’t let the look f-fool you. She was the m-most gentle pony I ever knew.”         “Knew?” Trixie asked, catching the last word.         Broken Broom gulped and rubbed the back of his head. Trixie grimaced. She knew she had hit a sore spot with the doctor.         “I’m so sorry.” Trixie stammered, unable to say anything else.         Broken Broom smiled in a reassuring way.         “It’s alright. You c-couldn’t have known. B-besides, I’m over it n-now. And since I kn-know that you will b-be afraid to ask, she d-died of lung c-cancer.”         Trixie nodded, prudent in keeping her tongue in check.         “It’s actually what in-inspired me to g-get my m-medical license.”         “I suppose that would make sense.” Trixie replied.         “Funnily enough, my c-cutie mark d-didn’t show up until after my m-mother passed.” He continued, turning to reveal his flank.         Trixie peered at the cutie mark, trying to make sense of it. A pair of lungs in front of a red cross adorned his flank. While it wasn’t what she would have picked for him, it couldn’t be helped. At least she didn’t have to ask what it was. The doctor returned to his chair.         “Now, my f-father. H-he was a character. He was a d-drill sergeant for the r-royal guard. D-didn’t speak much, but when he d-did, you’d barely hear him. That’s w-why he quit the g-guard. Didn’t like yelling m-much, even though he c-could, surprisingly so. He d-did like painting, though.” He paused to eat some noodles.         “He actually p-painted all of those pictures you s-see on the walls.” He finished.         Trixie nodded. “He’s very talented.” She replied. “Mmhmm. Well th-that’s enough about me. What’s your st-story? How’d you end up on th-the streets?” He asked, hoping to find a common wire. Trixie gulped. “Well, um, I am- used to be a traveling magician. The G-Great and Powerful Trixie.” She began. Broken Brooms eyes widened as he recognized the name. “Y-you were the mare that g-got whooped by P-princess Twilight, twice?” He exclaimed, mouth agape. “I don’t know if ‘whooped’ would be the correct term...” “Well, I guess I w-wouldn’t know what words t-to use; I wasn’t th-there when it happened. Still, I b-bet that’ll make f-for a good story.” He replied. A flash of anger passed through Trixie's face. “A good story, indeed.” Trixie spat inwardly. Rather than try to say something, Trixie forced a chuckle, hoping to humor Broken Broom. Broken Broom took the bait, mentally patting himself on the back. Soon after, Broken Broom retired from the table to prepare for bed, leaving Trixie. Trixie had poured herself another bowl of soup, hell bent on achieving food coma nirvana. After she had stuffed herself to the point of bursting, she levitated her bowl to the sink. Warm tap water began to pour from the faucet, which reminded Trixie of something that she desperately needed: a shower. “I smell awful.” Trixie thought aloud. “A proper bathing is definitely in order for you, Trixie.”   As the mare washed her dishes, she couldn’t help but notice the towering mass of silverware next to the sink. A little voice in her head told her to let somepony else deal with it, but another, quieter voice told her to clean them. Trixie bit her lip, weighing her options. She shook her head and began to dismantle the monument of grimy plates and forks. After five grueling minutes, Trixie sat on the floor with a huff. How did anypony put up with this labor? Trixie couldn’t comprehend it. It was so tedious! “No, no. Clean the dishes.” Trixie commanded herself as she began to scrub furiously. “You’ve already done so much, though.” She mumbled to herself, her own brain fighting itself. “That may be so, but you can not ruin this.” She pointed out. “Trixie, you have been through so much. Let someone else do it for once.” Trixie replied. Engrossed in her inner battle of will, Trixie never noticed the amused Broken Broom leaning on the wall, a coy smile on his face. “H-having fun th-there?” He asked, a mischievous grin plastered on his muzzle. Trixie whipped around, dropping a fork in the process. “Oh, uh, hello! I was just, um... cleaning?” She offered, magically grabbing the fork she had just dropped. “Uh huh. J-just so you know, f-forks aren’t the best floor c-cleaners.” He replied. “Oh! I wasn’t cleaning the floo-” Trixie began. “I know, Ms. Trixie, it w-was a j-j-joke.” He cut her off, winking. Trixie rubbed the back of her head, attempting to hide her embarrassment. Instead of giving Broken Broom another chance to poke fun, she turned around and resumed the cleaning dishes. The repetition of taking a soiled platter, scrubbing the scraps, washing and rinsing took it’s toll on Trixie, and it wasn’t until the clock passed nine that she had finished. She took a step back to admire her work. Trixie sighed with relief as she wiped her forehead. She stole a peek at the clock. Her eyes suddenly felt like lead, threatening to clamp shut at a moment’s notice. It was time for bed, but not before a grooming. Trixie walked out of the kitchen and into the den. Broken Broom lay on the couch, belly up. He reminded Trixie of a dog that she had once seen. She thought for a moment, trying to fetch the memory. Pictures of an orange mare wearing a brown stetson appeared in her head. “Oh yes, Twilight’s friend; the fruit one.” She mumbled groggily. Broken Broom stirred, shifting on the sofa. For a moment, Trixie worried that she had roused the stallion. A few seconds passed, and Trixie relaxed. She trotted towards the bedroom in search of a bath. She pushed open the door to Broken Broom’s bedroom. His room was the complete opposite of what Trixie had expected. Instead of rustic decor, a contemporary style was implemented. Light gray walls and jet black shag carpet contrasted the red furniture that filled the room. A queen-sized futon sat in the middle of the room, backed up against the wall. Nightstands sat on both sides of the bed, each with lamps. A single window filtered the moonlight, softly illuminating the space. Trixie did a panorama, scanning the room from left to right. A door was open to the right of the futon, which Trixie assumed led to the master bathroom. She walked into the room, and the distinct clop of hooves on tile confirmed her suspicions. A soft blue light emanated from her horn, illuminating the room. She flipped on the now-visible light switch, purging the darkness. The door clicked behind her as she shut it slowly, careful not to slam it. The bathroom was more of a hallway, with a cabinet to her immediate left, followed by a toilet, then a sink, and finally a shower. Trixie’s magic gripped the handle of the shower and opened it. She immediately died of pure joy. Broken Broom, like Trixie, had cosmic standards for bathing. Trixie stepped into the shower and bounced with giddiness. Jets lined the ceiling and the three walls that weren’t part of the frosted glass door. Knobs and buttons glistened on a fancy chrome panel, controlling everything from temperature to jet stream intervals, and a cabinet filled with soaps and shampoos beckoned to her. It was sheer ecstasy. Trixie closed the shower door and began to examine all the options Broken Broom’s shower had to offer. To Trixie’s pleasant surprise, the knobs that controlled temperature displayed how many degrees it was. Having to find the sweet spot would not be difficult. The best part was that the water did not flow until the shower’s occupant pressed the “begin” button. Trixie set the temperature at 95 degrees. She felt a hot shower would do her good. At last, she pressed the “begin” button. Water shot out at Trixie from four sides, drenching her in steaming rain. “Oh my sweet Celestia.” She moaned. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------         Steam poured into the bedroom as Trixie opened the door. The click of the light switch left her in darkness. She let the pima cotton towel fall from her magical grasp, the thick weave landing with a soft thud on the carpet. Trixie would pick it up in the morning. For now, it was time for some well deserved rest. The black sheets of Broken Broom’s bed were pulled back, allowing Trixie to lay, or rather, fall onto the mattress. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and let out a sigh.         Trixie began to recount the day, from begging to eating soup with a strangely sociable Broken Broom. Come to think of it, the doctor acting completely opposite of the nervous stallion she had first seen at Donut Joe’s. Trixie furrowed her brows. Broken Broom had still stuttered, but he had been much more... casual? Trixie halted the train of thought. She was too tired to think. Her eyes fluttered close and slowly did she fall into Luna’s embrace. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------         Broken Broom let out a sigh. His couch was not even remotely as comfortable as his bed. He glanced over to the kitchen, hoping he’d be able to make out the glowing digital clock. He huffed in disappointment. There were times when he wished he was an optometrist, and this was definitely one of them. His glasses sat folded on the oak coffee table, waiting to be donned in the morning. The doctor rolled onto his side. “Damn couch...” He grumbled. The couch was old, bought when Broken Broom first rented his apartment. That was around seven years ago. Now, the fabric was fading and creased. Broken Broom actually sort of liked it. It added to the homey feel of the den, but made sleeping on the couch a literal pain in the neck. The doctor rolled off of the couch and onto his hooves. The apartment was dark, save for the glowing lights of sleepless Manehattan. Broken Broom trotted over to the window and drew the curtain. His eyes slowly adjusted to the neon as he opened the window. He climbed out onto the fire escape. He came out here frequently. More frequently than he’d like to admit. He inhaled deeply, letting the cold air warm in his lungs. He stared at the sidewalk, watching the throngs of nocturnal ponies go to and fro, some venturing into the late night pastimes, some returning to their beds. Broken Broom looked to his left. On a small table sat a box made of redwood imported from Roam. He opened the box, and took a cigar from the container. A lighter sat by the box. It clicked as he opened it, followed by a soft scratch as he flicked the flint. He held the lighter up to the tip of the cigar, slowly inhaling. He exhaled, a plume of smoke billowing out of his mouth. Broken Broom knew better to inhale, but he allowed himself a few deep breaths. Cigars were meant to be savored, but the nicotine rush was too hard to resist. He exhaled once more, expelling the smoke from his lungs. The doctor took another puff, fishbowling it instead of inhaling. He tasted Griffonian herbs, accented by Saddle Arabian pepper. “You’re a l-lung d-doctor, man. You should kn-know better.” He said to himself, sadly chuckling. Broken Broom’s mother smoked, and so did his father. After his mother passed, his father quit, and Broken Broom took up the habit. It was a terrible thing, and he knew it. The only reason he never bothered to stop was the memory of his mother. He’d always thought that he’d never smoke when she was alive. She’d always tell him not to. He took another taste of the cigar. It was about halfway done. He leaned against the railing, rolling the cigar in his mouth. The burning tip was now approaching Broken Broom’s mouth. He sighed in disappointment. The cigar butt’s glow was snuffed in Broken Broom’s ashtray. He returned to the open window and clambered in. The doctor began to shiver, the cigar’s warmth leaving his body. He closed the window and stumbled over to the couch. He flopped down belly up and closed his eyes. Soon, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep. When I was young and they packed me off to school and taught me how not to play the game, I didn't mind if they groomed me for success, or if they said that I was a fool. So I left there in the morning with their God tucked underneath my arm -- their half-assed smiles and the book of rules. So I asked this God a question and by way of firm reply, He said -- I'm not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays. So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares): before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers -- I don't believe you: you had the whole damn thing all wrong -- He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays. Well you can excommunicate me on my way to Sunday school and have all the bishops harmonize these lines -- how do you dare tell me that I'm my Father's son when that was just an accident of Birth. I'd rather look around me -- compose a better song `cos that's the honest measure of my worth. In your pomp and all your glory you're a poorer man than me, as you lick the boots of death born out of fear. I don't believe you: you had the whole damn thing all wrong -- He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.          Wind-Up - Ian Anderson