//------------------------------//
// Chapter XII 
// Story: Blank Slate 
// by Integral Archer 
//------------------------------//

	Littlepip returned to work rather sullen. 

She could not name the reason why she felt this way. Something inside her gnawed at her abdomen. Something averted her eyes inward the second she managed to focus them on the orthographic projections and the Pip-Buck in question.

It was a horrible feeling, she thought. It wrenched the stomach inside and out. But the physical pain was bearable. What was unbearable, what distracted her was that she could not name the reason why. She felt like an outsider in her own flesh. Her body revolted in the presence of something horrible, but her consciousness was aware of nothing.

It was a problem she had never encountered before and from which she could think of no resort: a problem that she couldn’t define. She couldn’t even tell herself whether it was trivial or grave. Was it a standing problem? she asked herself. No, she thought; if it were a standing problem, I’d have fixed it by now. It’s not a sitting problem either; I know what that feels like. Is it a lying on my back problem—or, even, a prostrate problem? I don’t think it’s either of those. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever had a prostrate problem before. What would that feel like? I probably wouldn’t know what a prostrate problem looked like if I were presented with one. And I have no desire to find out. She figured that the lack of knowledge of what a prostrate problem actually was was a blessing in itself.

Perhaps Doctor Shrink would help, she thought. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to her. No, she decided; no, I can’t do that. What would I say? I don’t know why I’m feeling the way I am? I can imagine the response now: Welcome to life. Get used to it, because you’re going to be living in it for a while.

In the presence of nopony, by herself, alone, sitting on the floor, in front of the closet marked “Spare Parts,” the two posters still stared at her. They were the same posters as on the day before, and they still said the same things. But the one of Velvet Remedy had changed somewhat: She no longer looked genuinely eager and playful. She seemed to be affecting a nervous smile in the presence of the other poster, which leered at her with the same sly grin as before. But Velvet Remedy did not reject the leer; she looked as if she were simply uncomfortable in it but accepted it regardless. The leer had something to hold over its bright companion—an empty promise, unfulfilled.

Littlepip looked back to the Pip-Buck and to the projections. She thought back to her work in the morning. What had changed? She could distinguish no break in her work of that day in her memory. She thought she had gone to the cafeteria and had talked to her friends, but she couldn’t be sure.

It crept back to her. When she had voiced this last thought, it became more apparent than ever. I’m in that dream state again, she thought. I can’t distinguish between what happened before to what happened only in my imagination. It’s just like . . .

Littlepip set her tools down and immediately retired to her room.