"You Monster"
You and I, by perspective, the same.
“Endlessly depressing.”--That Stallion With The Glasses.
“You will never forget it!”--Some critic.
“This is insufferably pragmatic as it is laconic and nihilistic”--Zero Punctuation.
“Series one was better.”--Some hipster.
This is what I imagined the pre-screening critics would say about this stream of consciousness, this endless movie. The convoluted images flowed on for eons, into a boundless envelope of space populated solely by shifting silhouettes.
A leviathan river of epic coiling reel filled the goblet of my braincase, rupturing the delicate tension at the brim before running over the sides. The swirling kaleidoscope of ink followed the path of least resistance, surging in heavy waves crashing over everything. I tried to breath but found no purchase on the air, pulling the foreboding liquor of bitter memory into my bursting lungs.
The black ichor crawled into every crevice and washed over my vision, sinking me into despair. I could see everything, everything I’d ever known or will know, everything I’ve done or will do. Overwhelming emotions, toxic hate and rage connected my motives and made a line branching out before me.
“What’s black, white and red all over? Any zebra that crosses my path.” Words filled my mind, my own voice echoed brief snippets of memories, damning thoughts filtered through hate and malice.
“Just promise me you’ll stay out of the war.” I could hear the voice of my wife, urging me to make a promise. A promise I must have broken to be where I am now.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to raise a son on your own?! I’m a good father, old dog! Far better than you were!” I was such a bitter and angry person back then. Why, why was I so angry? Where did that come from?
“This won’t be a war, this will be an extermination.” I had been right on that occasion, it had almost been an extermination. It had become an entire mess. A mess I’d played no small part in, if the subtle overtones in these memories was to be trusted.
One point became the focus of these memories, the scene shifting back, the sun and moon cresting over the horizon of the placid black sea. Back in time, to the beginning, or maybe a little after. I saw the world as it had been, the ink swirling into the intricate shapes and patterns to allude to their likeness.
***
You closed your eyes, the images haunting you even in the relative safety of your mind. When you opened your windows to the world, you broke the surface sitting bolt upright in a cold-dead sweat. The unnatural movement caused your spine to protest, seizing up until you collapsed back onto the bed with a hoarse, dry-throat groan.
Minutes passed like hours, and just as you were on the cusp of sleep, a disturbance robbed you of that sweet embrace you longed. You just wanted the headache to go away--Sleeping would solve that for you, it always did.
Clink--Clink--Clinkity clink clink! Crash!
Noise, noise that hurt to hear, your ears flicked. You rolled over and grabbed the pillow, holding it over your head to muffle the sound. The sweat-soaked casing smelled of alcohol, musk, and a hint of vomit. The sound didn’t stop, but grew louder, closer, and more frequent. A weight shifted on the squeaky springs of the mattress and made towards you--the clinking became less frequent. I just wanted to sleep! Who the buck is bothering me at this hour?! You wanted to think that, but all that processed in your mind was; Brehlehmffffnnn. You were so barren of cognition that you couldn’t think in sentences.
“Dad! Dad, wake up!” A small voice urged, pushing on your body with little hooves. Once again you rolled over away from the pestering and groaned, tangling yourself in the sheets like a protective cocoon.
It was a battle of wills, one that your hazey, booze addled mind could not win in the end. The brief tug of war ended with the colt lifting the edge of the sheets with a powerful flicker of magic and spiralling you in the air to land in a thick layer of bottles on the floor, scattering them with a symphony of mind-screeching annoyance.
“Alright! Alright, I’m up!” You said with a guttural tone, signifying your defeat by waving an imaginary white flag with a forehoof. After floundering around in what you discovered to be a small ocean of empty booze bottles, you managed to sit upright. You had yet to open your tired, sore eyes, but you knew what was waiting just beyond them.
A kingdom of bottles all around, on every surface of the room. The once homey Trottingham inspired nautical decor was bleak and rusty instead of rustic. Everything was a mess, nothing had been cleaned in months. You were as miserable as you were unmotivated, even with your son sitting on the bed staring at you expectantly.
“Whatcha want, kiddo? It’s--” You shot a sour glance at the clock, giving a dull, head throbbing pulse of magic to clear the bottles obscuring it on the nightstand. “Eight AM.” You concluded finally. Smacking your lips, you noticed how parched your throat was, your stringy saliva a noticeable, swinging ballast on your stiff upper lip.
“It’s a school day,” The boy replied, wearing a disconcerting frown. You had forgotten, it wasn’t the weekend--Unaware of the day you had drunk yourself stupid on a Sunday night. Reflecting on the night before you can hardly recall it, you had scarcely left your room and you hadn’t even bothered visiting any friends in at least a month. All your thoughts, which were already a trainwreck, caught fire when the young colt used his magic on the blinds to the bay window, knocking an obelisk to your vices over in the process.
“Augh!” Your hooves made a poor shield against the bright light, driving a spike of discomfort straight into your sleepy frontal lobe. Your pounding head screamed the roar of a jackhammer against your temples. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with both hooves, you groaned, letting them fall away after a few moments. A few more blinks adjusted your eyes to the light, yet the constant throb of a heartbeat behind your eyeballs remained.
“Come on, I started breakfast.” Your son chimes with strained cheerfulness. He has been so patient with you, Luna bless him. You wouldn’t be so kind if the roles were reversed. The knowledge of this did not motivate you to change, but robbed you further of any drive that remained.
He vanished after he leapt off the bed and sank into the collection of bottles, only his horn poked out. A small avalanche ushered him through the frame once he opened the door. “Come on, lazy bones!” Nopony should be this cheerful on a Monday--Especially not a foal on a schoolday.
Leaving your room was a chore every morning, with bottles up to your withers, getting to where your things were was a task second only to finding them among the piles of refuse and dirty dishes. Old grey cloak, boots, top hat(Even when down on your luck, you still had to have some class), and all your belongings were in various hiding places that took you every ounce of coordination to achieve the habitual dance of the morning routine. Ready but unwilling you slid into the hall, stumbling as the whole place shuddered. The wood creaked and the heavy metal pipe running along the halls belched steam as rancid as your morning breath.
FlickerJack was on her last wingnut. The latch to the storage galley broke and spilled the contents of a thousand adventures across the short hall to the main gallery. Groggily, you scaled it and tumbled over, kicking the old sea-chest and the various old forget-me-nots and souvenirs from various venues of versation. Every piece had a story, you were sure, you just couldn’t remember any of them nor care at this point. Well, you did care about that old vintage bottle of Gulag Grog that got added to the hallway’s growing pile. Good thing you never threw anything out.
When you sauntered in nursing a bottle of old booze, a common sight greeted you. Rowdy, your son, was incredible with magic(A trait he’d inherited from his mother, Luna rest her soul.) and he managed precision control of the entire kitchen with merely semi-consideration on the spell’s incantations. This of course, left him with more than enough focus to show his disapproval at the bottle of booze you found.
Without so much as a word he set your breakfast down in on the table and placed a kiss on your cheek, standing on the table briefly to do so. “Eat up, pops.” He squeaked. He went back to the small open kitchen to finish his preparations, packing his school lunch all by himself. It took you awhile to notice he was wearing that thing again--That thing being the frilly pink apron that had belonged to his mother. He’d been picking up a lot of slack since she’d passed away, and while dwelling on it, you downed a quarter of the bottle to burn out the cold feeling swelling in your guts.
You ate in silence, as usual, the only sound was the clinking of silverware and creaking of the airship’s old boiler engine. You downed another fourth of the bottle after taking a few bites of food, sating your non existent appetite.
Rowdy cleaned his plate and finished off his juice box before clearing his side of the table. A table made for a crew, but with only two it seemed superfluous.
“Aren’t you gonna eat?” His expectations were always met with negatives, you don’t know why he ever bothered asking anymore. “Do you remember what day it is?”
“I’m not that hungry...” You answer, pushing the plate away. “It tasted good though, thanks.” You returned to nursing the bottle and left only a scant few drops. “Ermf, it’s Monday. Just another Monday.”
“At least you’re always thirsty.” His bitter words followed his actions, the plate lifting up before it crashed into the sink, shattering. You didn’t react, not even a flinch. You should be surprised, but your dumb mind was too addled by booze. “It’s a school day! You shouldn’t be drinking!”
“Piss off.” You reply, giving an indignant snort, slamming the bottle down. “I’ll drink when I want.” It was this again, it was always this with him--He never understood why it hurt. Why you had to make the pain go away. The little brat!
It was a challenge--A flicker of his horn’s magic and it was on. He tried to forcefully take the bottle, and since you were so plastered you almost failed to react. Twenty years as an adventurer had honed reflexes and muscle memories to the point of automation, but those memories were blanketed by a thick slush of booze.
In the brief struggle of wills, he won out, nullifying your grasp with a simple shield spell around the bottle, blocking your influence and drawing his prize to him. He dumped the remaining booze into the sink, setting the empty bottle into the nearby trash bin. “There, now that wasn’t so hard.” His face was briefly cheerful, knowing he’d bested his old man and gotten what he wanted--Briefly because when he turned around you produced a fresh bottle from under your hat.
He couldn’t win. Even if he dumped all the bottles in plain sight, there were plenty hidden in secret spots he’d never found, even when he wandered the ship with curious, foalish eyes as a lil pup. He glared daggers at you, storming over and leaping on the table. “Dad! Dad!” He huffed, snorted, then yelled out in a harsh whinny, “DADDY!”
You drop the bottle. He hadn’t called you ‘Daddy’ since, well, forever! For once your spotty paternal instincts cracked the whip and you gave your son undivided attention. You expected there to be more anger, more fighting, but only pity remained in his eyes--The brilliant hazel orbs he’d inherited from his mother.
“What is wrong with you?” He asks, his patience had just run out completely.
To find the words, you had to take a few breaths and think, through the fog you mutter, “You wouldn’t understand. I just...” You lower your head and tilt your hat down over your eyes. You wanted to avoid his gaze, to escape thinking about her. “I want to forget.”
“Forget mom.” He states blankly. “You want to forget mom.”
“No, I just...You don’t get it! How I feel, how it hurts! I need this--” You found any excuse now, losing ground. Your hooves were over the open sea and you didn’t know how to swim.
“You act like you’re the only one who lost someone! Well I lost someone that day too, I lost my mom!” Rowdy cried out, “And now I’m losing my dad...”
The bottle, you really needed that bottle. The pain throbbing in your chest spread out, like a crack widening in the hull after a winter’s freeze. You retrieved the bottle, sparing a bereaved glance to the puddle under the table. Having a shot was better than getting shot, and the liquor like bitter honey danced on your tongue.
Hazel eyes brimming with tears, he declared his anger in a roar. He hated his selfish father that didn’t care. “Forget you dad, I hate you!” Rowdy bawled as he grabbed his lunch and abandoned the apron. Before he vanished up the stairs to topdeck, he called back one final declaration, “And this ‘just another Monday’ is my birthday. Not that you cared to remember!”
You urge yourself to follow him, to stop him from leaving; your body replies by sitting there numbly, feelings blanked by warmth filling every limb. A warmth that soon faded to hollow, misty eyes. Time passed at a crawl, that is, until the alcohol was purged from your system. A vile taste remained in your mouth, the poison sticking to the back of your teeth and roof of your mouth as it furled out onto the floor.
Unburdened by any real guilt, you went for another bottle on your person, checking your jacket sleeves and coming up empty all while failing to notice you were being watched. The absence of your booze was compounded by the loss of your hat, which now sat at a jaunty angle upon a rose-colored mare’s head.
At her hooves were eight bottles, all of them yours, pilfered off your person. The sneaky pegasus mare, while noticeably more curvy(Celestia help you if anypony ever called her fat) was a far better sneak thief than even you. She also had next to her a mop and bucket, with fresh soapy water--This bucket’s contents was thrown against you, drenching you while she practically beat you senseless with the wet mop, cleaning both you and the floor in tandem.
It was almost her solemn duty to look after you, as she always did. Without even a word shared between you, you knew what the other was thinking. Her disappointment was only matched by her worry and she’d heard every word.
Noisily she moved around you, her wood and cable prosthetic scraping over the floor with sharp creaks--It, just like the ship, was now more putty filler than wood and it showed its disrepair. “You really mucked up this time, Captain.” The mare, your navigator and lifelong partner, tells you. “Nevermore’d get a kick out of this--You prove her wrong then you go right back to being a loser.”
You open your mouth to say something in your defense, only to get a mop pushed into your face, drowning you in suds. The mare uses her wings to power the old, raggedy cotton mop head into your dirty, scruffy white face all the while explaining to you how much she wishes she could look up to you again.
This battery doesn’t stop for a good solid five minutes, and when it does, it only halts for a moment so she can splash another bucket of cold water over you. “I know how hard it was to lose Recoil, I lost a leg and I went to the bottle. I was just a lush. You? You’re just...Pushing everypony and every non-pony that cares about you away...”
She wasn’t just a lush, you know that--Her depression ran deep for a long while, but she always hid it or snuck away to handle her vice in privacy. She was never bold like you, to wallow in her issues at the expense of her loved ones. She tells you you’re a jerk, an asshole. Those words are almost too nice for you.
Finally, it’s over! You’re sitting at the table, looking groggy but clean. The rose colored mare uses a near comically sized billows in an improvised manner to blow you dry. Once again, you open your yap to say something in your defense before your pelt fluffs up with air as it dries. A single eyelid twitches as you knit your aggression together in the form of two angry eyebrows.
What are you angry about? Everything! Nothing! You didn’t know! Everything was a mess and you weren’t doing anything about it!
“Here.” The mare says, setting something wrapped in an oiled cloth before you. You wonder briefly what it is, unwrapping it as she continues to talk, not like you can get a word in edge-wise. “This always helped you find your way when you were lost--I can’t believe you pawned it for more booze. This is the last time I’m bailing you out.”
The Compass--yes THE Compass. It’s a proper name for a proper and powerful magical artifact. It has always found a heading, even in places where magnetism was disrupted--Through illusions and even to find objects long thought missing. It belonged to your father, or more precisely, the creature that had fathered both you and the rose colored mare.
The simple brass casing popped open of its own accord revealing an inlay of jeweled faces, the needle spinning in lazy, aimless circles. The gems flashed lightly before it chimed and popped open at the face. Music played from inside and stored memories played out in the shaped of a primitive single color hologram, like a diorama in a bubble.
The last thing that had been saved in the compass’ auto-memory was the Krew reunion , your wife and son in attendance. It was the last time you’d done something as a family, and the last time you’d ever been happy.
“There’s wrapping paper and a box somewhere in the storage galley. It shouldn’t be too hard to find if you use the compass.” The rose colored mare spoke crisply. “You should hurry up, Captain, you have a party to plan.”
She was pointing you in the right way to redeem yourself, she always pointed you in the right way. You didn’t know which was more reliable, her and her maps, or this mystical ancient compass passed down the family line.
“I’ll need my hat,” you tell her. This makes her chuckle and she pats the hat on her brow.
“You mean the collateral? You get it back when you bring your son home all smiles, deal?” She said to you, offering no alternative.
“Deal.” You agree with a sigh and a roll of the eyes.
She was right, as usual, about how easy it was to find things using the compass. You just spoke a rhyme and it showed you the way--By painfully dragging you through the entire mess wholly. It was probably worth mentioning that the compass was designed to be set into a recess in a ships’ forecast deck at which point it would assist the ship in the direction, even against gale force winds. You weren’t a ship, but it tugged you just the same, painfully, mind you, through the mess of the galley.
There were many boxes, the smallest and easiest of which was a one that stored a small medal, an old warrior signet from the Pegasus tribe before the unity of the three tribes. You briefly considered its value before shaking it out into the pile of other artifacts of dubious value. The wrapping paper was, oddly enough, in the old gunpowder 34-pound cannon, aptly named because it would launch 34 pounds worth of mashed potatoes at enemy ships, which was as messy as it was impractical. It was one of the worse yet delicious ideas for nonsensical seadog warfare that was prevalent in the bygone era of sea piracy, second only to the pie slingers of Appaloosa today.
That was then, nowadays it was all metal. Metal to flesh instead of flesh to fun like it used to be, in a more peaceful era. Your wife was just one of the many casualties of the war, collateral damage dealt by the Zebra Empire and its zealous ambitions in doing whatever it is they did. You didn’t stay up to date on politics or war, not anymore, your interest lay in history and adventuring, or, at least it did until you found solace in a bottle.
Your ability to do short term menial tasks while afflicted with a hangover would be the ultimate undoing of your depression, leading you on the redeeming adventure of calling in a ton of favors. The Canterlot Museum’s head owed you, which got you in contact with a few higher up ponies, which in turn went higher and higher until you got someone of grand importance.
If you were going to throw your son a birthday party and win him back, you’d do it with the best you could find--The best just so happened to match his favorite color. Pink.
What secret backroom deals did you have to make to get in contact with the Pinkius Pie? You’re unsure to it, actually. In fact, maybe it was her that called you. It was really lost in the shuffle there for a while, and after playing phone tag with three secretaries, their secretaries, and enduring mind numbing music you somehow got ahold of the Cakes, who then got her to call you back at some point in the confusing shuffle.
Pinkie Pie. A legend among party hosts, and a bearer of an Element of Harmony. She was the self proclaimed ‘hostess with the mostess’! “Try saying that ten times fast!” She said, before trying it herself. She messed up by the sixth time and came out with, “Hopsteps train mess.” At which point she giggled, snorted, and you heard the distinct sound of her falling over and waving her hooves at the air. Yes, you heard this over a phone.
You had her time, so you told her your story, briefly, explaining to her how you needed help to get your son(and yourself) happy again. By the end of your tale, the pink pony was sniffling sadly, blowing her nose.
“Of course I’ll help you! I’ll have a party ready in a hop, skip the jump, and done!” Well, that was easy.
You try to tell her that you haven’t told her a location, time, or anything, but the mare says everything is already prepared and the emergency party brigade was already prepping the balloons and bouncy castle. Baffled, you simply nod numbly and thank her, for once feeling a genuine smile coming on. That smile on your wary lips makes the pink mare gasp happily--a squee sounding. “I just love making ponies smile!” She exclaims. How she could detect your smile was even more alarming.
You stare at phone as if it’s cursed before hanging up and leave your room, which is noticeably cleaner since you tossed all the empty bottles overboard. Then of course, remembering you were moored in Canterlot and you just tossed a bunch of bottles out onto the street below makes you briefly panic. You decide the best course of action is to sneak away while the royal canterlot guards are writing littering citations and pasting them to the bow of your ship. You’ll deal with THAT later. Much later, like never showing up to Canterlot Court later.
For once you were at the top, or at least rising there swiftly. You didn’t know how much Pinkie Pie would do to help, so to play it safe you bought a small, modest cake (vanilla, because everypony loves vanilla) and used a payphone to make a few more calls to some of your old Krew. Everything was arranged just in case Pinkie Pie failed to pull through, you had your old teammates running emergency backup plans B-LMNOP.
It was a full day’s worth of work, at at least most of the morning into noon. You wondered briefly what could be a better surprise than getting picked up from school early and concluded nothing could be better! Giving yourself one last look in the reflection of a shop’s window you passed, you decided you looked somewhat presentable, if a bit scruffy and unshaven. You smiled at the glass, then frowned. What if your son didn’t forgive you?
It doesn’t hurt to try, though, right? Just try to be a good father. Just this once to turn it all around and be the stallion your wife married. Your determination is unbreakable, your heading is sure, and you take deliberate steps to go to the prestigious academy your son now learns at.
Luna’s School For Gifted Unicorns.
You’re feeling good about yourself, so you take a scenic route and run into a pony selling balloons. Pleasantries aside, you purchase a set of three and go on your merry way to your final destination. That is, until, every step begins to sink cold dread into your chest.
You see it far off at first, a barricade of ‘Do Not Cross’ and first responders. Fireponies and medical personal, guards, soldiers, and hazmat suits. It’s all just a blur of pure dread that is focused into a thousand-yard stare at the place just beyond. The school.
Concerned parents are rallied at the line, clamouring for thier loved ones, sirens sound and the world around you falls apart. Nopony is getting through. No answers are being given. Your voice is drown out by distressed cries. Muscles you haven’t used in ages ache as they tense, a stern, calm demeanor washes over you. You’re going to get through, over or through. Nothing will stop you.
You bolt straight for the line and thread into the crowd before leaping up and deftly onto several faces to vault over the line--While they had prepared for pegasus fly overs, they didn’t expect a unicorn to rush the line or to be so quick--Nor did they expect you to phase right through the front line of first responders. Incorporeality, a rare spell among unicorns allowing one to slip themselves through solid objects or escape harm. Most baby unicorns can do this automatically, a reflex of self preservation that they lose when they grow old. You, you’ve never lost this reflex and it has saved your life countless times.
This time it might get you killed. Your heart is thundering, your muscles screaming, and you leave six guards in various states of injury in your wake. Halfway up the courtyard you slam into a barrier--A masterfully crafted one you cannot slip through. You slam yourself against it over and over until you collapse into a slump. Somepony had surrounded the school to ensure nothing that crossed the line got in without clearance, and that somepony was the Captain of the Guard.
Shining Armor looks down at you, not angrily, but sadly as he places a strong hoof against the middle of your back, pinning you down. “I’m sorry, but I need to take you into custody.” You’re familiar with him, everypony has heard of Shining Armor, husband to Cadence. You thought he’d been replaced here, while on leave protecting the Crystal Empire. Turns out, he was here visiting his family at the time of the incident, the incident with only one survivor.
That survivor was not your son.
They called it Pink Cloud, a deadly agent that melted down the flesh and internal organs of its victims. You didn’t want to think about it, how much that must have hurt to die in such a fashion. It was a terrorist attack by the zebra. They took your light, but not your silver lining. The only survivor was your best friend, Rowdy’s teacher, Goldenblood.
So there you sit, in the back of a police wagon, watching three red balloons sail into the sky from behind a set of bars. Your release is surprisingly expedient, all charges are generously dropped, and you’re free to go. This makes you late for the party, one that Pinky has spared no effort to make into a bash. When you arrive, you get to have the wonderful privilege to break the news to everyone there--Pinkie takes it the hardest, her hair losing its air like a punctured balloon.
And there you sit at the party, the darkness looming over you unbearable. The party is dead as your soul, the balloons do nothing but remind you of your fresh new wounds in your heart. Still, you hold three lines to three red balloons. You do the same when you visit Goldenblood in the hospital. And the same when you identify the body of your kin. And the same at the funeral, three red balloons.
You never get your hat back from the sad, rose colored mare, you don’t want it. That deal is set in stone. You didn’t bring your son back all smiles, you didn’t bring him back at all. Time passes and the pain stays, it lingers in your heart, compressing every ounce of joy from you.
You wake up every day, but not to a sea of bottles, but to a new project, anything to distract you from thinking. Anything to not dwell. You traded your grey cloak for a red duster. Your ship has never looked better and you’ve never been in better shape. Days to months, time passes. You never miss a scheduled chess game with Goldenblood after--Sorrow and pain brings fellowship between you.
When he offers you hard apple cider, you abstain.
“I never want to forget.”
And nor would you forgive.
That is where your end began and I became. You are not me, but I am still you. I am all the hate and anger left, all that remains of you. You trapped me in a body that cannot feel joy or happiness and stole from me eternal rest.
You became a monster and I am all that’s left. A fragment of a monster. What good remains in me is merely a trick of the light.