//------------------------------// // Chapter 1 // Story: Insipid // by SleepIsforTheWeak //------------------------------// It’s the sound of glass breaking that awakes me in my earliest memory. Well, maybe this memory is not my earliest memory, per se. I had a whole album full of pictures of happier times when I was a filly—and a few faded memories from those happier times, too. But they’re things like playing in the bounce-house with a colt whom my mother claimed was my cousin (I do remember being irrationally scared of bounce-houses for some reason, too, and throwing a huge fit when my mother made me go on my first one), and wanting desperately to go into the mud-hole in this one picture. I don’t exactly know what those things are called, those mud holes, but apparently the mud is supposed to make your skin healthier or some other crap like that? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll research it later. But I’m getting off topic. Where was I again? Oh, yes, the glass breaking—forgive my memory and veering off of topic, I’m kind of scatterbrained. Anyway—I woke up to the breaking of glass. Or maybe I was up already and listening, I honestly don’t remember. I was young, see. No, no, I don’t know how young. I never celebrated my birthday. Maybe it was not a custom back where I’m from—no, no, wait. I do have that one picture and that one very, very hazy memory that comes with it, and the picture has a cake and things so it was probably a birthday-like thing. Besides, where I’m from isn’t really that different from here. In all honesty it was probably the poverty, and other things which we will get into later. But no, I don’t know how old I was. My guestimate would be… maybe… four? And that’s the most intelligent guess I can muster judging from what I know about the brain not being developed enough to really have memories before the age of three, and the fact that I looked four or five-ish in those happy pictures. Anyway—glass breaking. It didn’t come as a surprise to me. My parents were always fighting and throwing things at each other. It was like a common thing in my life—I didn’t know any different and therefore accepted it as something that happened to everypony. You will find that is the case a lot in my story. Maybe this is the reason that I’m so okay with everything that happened to me. Or maybe it’s because my mind has repressed it all so much that I can’t even remember feeling anything. That’s another thing—don’t try any of those idiotic ‘writing hate letters to relieve myself’ things. I don’t hate my parents. I don’t feel anything from or about my past. It is like a movie in black and white going through my head, but one that I’m only awake for sporadically—I see the actions and hear the actors and everything, but I cannot get engrossed emotionally in it cause I don’t know what came before and then I just get bored and fall back asleep and not know what came after, either. That’s good money wasted, too. Movies are expensive nowadays. Sorry! Sorry! I’m just babbling now… well, you did say I could just talk to you, but this is not my first time in a counselor’s office and I know that these things run on a time limit of about an hour. Now where was I? Right, right, arguing. So my folks were arguing—no big surprise, they did that all the freaking time. Lots of throwing things at each other and everything. Then they came into the living room, where I was, and started arguing over me. My mother quite literally tugged me one way, and my father quite literally tugged me the other. It was like a tug-of-war. Kind of funny now that I think about it. Maybe they were gentle, maybe they weren’t. Don’t remember, moving on. My mother ended up winning, and the next thing I knew she was rushing us out of that apartment and into the cold night and to the bus station. It was dark and very, very cold. Then again, it was usually pretty cold out. I mean, this is the Frozen North we’re talking about. Our idea of summer is temperatures of low sixties at the highest, for about two months out of the year. It’s not like Equestria, ya know? So the bus came and we got on. I don’t remember much of anything else—I think I fell asleep on the bus ride. Regardless, the next thing I knew we arrived at my grandparents’ place. Where my father lived in a rather spacious two bedroom apartment, my grandparents lived in a filthy, tiny, and cramped one bedroom. They lived above some people, and I think those ponies actually were the ones that they paid the rent to (if they even paid rent, that is, and since I didn’t know anything about rent or money back then, I didn’t know to look for it and never found out). I don’t exactly remember meeting my maternal grandparents before in my life, so I cannot tell you what my reaction to them was. I think I was too tired to really care, and it was warm inside and I had my mother and she had never really steered me in the wrong direction before, so I guess I took it in stride. I was a good kid. I didn’t question things. That much I do know, and that much is still true today. What happened next? Hell if I know. Like I said—movie that I’m only sporadically awake for. Like, I have flashes of memories of what I did in my childhood, so I guess that is how I passed the time (and lemme tell you—a kid can get into some crazy and dangerous shit if left unsupervised. And I was left completely and utterly unsupervised for a very, very long time.) What were those things? Heh. Well, we lived in this… cul-de-sac, I suppose? One could not get there in a carriage, so a cul-de-sac it was not, I suppose. Anyway, we lived right next to this really tall building, but after one passed that tall building, there were these rows of rusty and sturdy metal storage areas. And behind them there was this huge construction site (yes, I did play there, but not too often). So anyway, using a running start and the pile of rubble right next to the garage, I would jump up onto the roof of one of the garages and then I would jump from roof to roof, back and forth, of that line of garages. There were roughly fifteen of them, in a line, standing just close enough that I could make the jump, but just far enough that the jump was dangerous and made my blood pump. The last two were especially difficult, and I fell many times before I was able to figure out the force of both my jump and my running start in order to make it to the next roof. I actually think I broke my jaw from a fall once—banged it just so on the edge of the roof that I was trying to jump to. Weird thing is that I’m scared of heights now. I suppose one is fearless when they’re young. Other than that I spent the days wandering around and exploring the neighborhood that I lived in. It was my kingdom, and I knew it so well I could draw you a map. Oh. Yeah. I guess our time together is running out. Very well then, let’s continue this next Friday, shall we? Yes, yes, I’ll see you then. The harsh sun beats down upon me pleasantly as I step out of Dr. Basket Case’s building. I stop just outside, breathe in, and then shield my eyes from the sun. It’s so unusual, the sun. The sensation of warmth it brings is hard to get over, and I feel myself bloom under it. I belong under the sun, I know. What a cruel trick of fate that I was born in the Northern Continent, where snow falls daily and the sun is used for nothing but light, as it does not bring warmth. The ponies here have it good. And they don’t even know so, the fools. Dr. Case’s office sits at the end of the market—a long, wide road with shops and individual little stalls. My eyes pass over the market, uninterested. It's bright with all the colors of fruits and vegetables and the ponies mill around, doing whatever it is they do. Probably, like, barging and buying stuff and browsing. Maybe even seeing their friends, ‘cause everypony seems to be friends around here. I stalk through the market, eyes on the ground. My eyes naturally stray to my hoofs all the time, because the ground is more interesting than anything around me, I guess. There are sounds and smells and ponies surrounding me, but my senses remain uninterested in any of it. Sometimes I wish… no, nevermind. Getting through the market is an annoyance. Ponies are all over the place and I have to weave around them, muttering half-heard apologies if I brush up against anypony. At the end of the market sits a small bridge, and a short distance away from it, there seems to be a building—no, a skyscraper—being constructed. I scowl at the tall, half-built structure as I pass over the tiny bridge, and then I continue on my way. The ground turns into untamed grass, swayed gently by the wind, as I walk further away from town. I like the grass under my hoofs—it’s soft and I don’t have to pick it out at the end of the day, unlike the dirt of the dirt-roads in Ponyville. That’s an annoyance, too. I sigh and roll my eyes, and then reach my destination. I live in a boat. I’m sure that when ponies hear that, they picture a floating mansion outlined with lights like the one in that old movie, Sleepless in Balimare. They think I sit on the deck under an umbrella while water gently laps up against the sides. But I don’t live on any floating mansion; hell, my boat is not even in the water. Insipid is an old, weather-beaten thirty-foot sailboat that somehow ended up being nowhere near water, but instead swallowed by vines. When I found it, it wasn’t even recognizable as a boat—merely a something that was covered up by vines. I made quick work of getting it uncovered, and now it is my home. It’s a lousy place to live, but costs me nothing, which is good because I have no money. It’s so small that I can’t even turn around without bumping into something. All my belongings fit into little nooks and crannies in the cramped cabin below deck. The galley has a tiny oven, a tiny sink, and a couple of tiny shelves for food that stay mostly empty. The refrigerator isn’t really a refrigerator—it’s an icebox about the size of a regular cardboard box. The table in the galley barely holds two plates and two cups. In the main part of the cabin are two side benches. Above them are small storage areas and then a pair of rectangular windows that have no glass. I sleep up front in the V berth—when I first slept in there, I sat up quickly in the mornings a couple of times, cracking my head pretty good. Since then, I’ve always remembered to crawl in and crawl out. I climb up on the boat now, and crawl easily into my sleeping space after some maneuvering around. I feel around under my pillow and extract my library card, tossing it around my neck and gathering the three novels scattered around my sleeping area before crawling back out and stretching my back. The library is a little ways ahead east from where I live. It’s a nice, big place, and pretty isolated at edge of town. From my broken window I can often see its outline in the distance. The librarian is a strange one, a kindred soul. Nothing too special about her—purple unicorn, has that look in her eyes that says she’s a know-it-all, but also has a genuine smile so I guess that balances her out. When I first came to the library, she about threw me a damn party. Nopony really uses the library apparently. I meander to the library, whistling a low tune. I go to the library nearly every day, sometimes because I run out of books to read even though I check them out three at a time, and mostly because the librarian always gives me some tea when I go there. The tea is crap, frankly, nothing more than hot leaf juice, but that’s mostly because my tongue is trained in the ways of tea. I’m sure she thinks it’s wonderful, since I never complain, and seeing as tea is kind of my special talent, she must think me an expert. The library grows steadily closer, and I pick up my pace a bit to a steady, lazy trot. I reach the door and knock once and then inspect the door like I always do. It has a candle on it, for some reason that is beyond me. Before I can debate further, the door swings open and the librarian smiles at me. “Hi, it’s you again,” she says, like she always does. I nod in return, like I always do, and then she swings the door open and invites me inside, like she always does. We are not familiar with each other. Well, I mean, we see each other often, but like, I don’t even know her name. I guess she knows mine since she has to sign my books in and out and stuff, but she never really calls me by name and I’m just fine with that. She scurries off to the kitchen to make tea for me as I deposit my returned books on the round table in the middle of the library and then walk to the shelves and look at the books in disinterest. I always just kind of walk to a random shelf and pick out the first three books my eyes land on, even if it sometimes makes me end up with boring books about like… history or some other crap like that. Also, magic. Magic is useless to me, I’m an earth pony, but I guess it’s interesting to read about. Anything to pass the time, I guess. I select my books, not even reading the titles of them, and then carry them over to one of the three podium-like book stands around the library, since she doesn’t really have seating anywhere in here. She should really fix that—sitting on the floor isn’t the most comfortable thing ever. I deposit one of the books on the stand and sit on my hunches in front of it, finally looking at the title. The Mating Habits of Timberwolves: With Illustrations. Hell, alright then. I hear her approaching as I start to read, and then there is a soft sound of her setting down a teacup. I pay her no mind, engaged in my book, until the hair on my back stand up from the sensation of being watched. I straighten up, but don’t look at her. “So, uh,” she begins, and I scowl. Interrupting my reading for small talk? Hmph. Her voice dwindles off into nothing and I roll my eyes and then turn around. I guess it’s kind of hard to talk to one’s back. She stands just behind me, shifting awkwardly. I force a smile and raise a brow at her. “Yes?” “You come here pretty often,” she observes, flashing a smile. What a genius. I nod, holding my tongue. I’m sure she was just being… friendly. “I like to read,” I elaborate when our conversation goes dead again. She brightens, smiling yet again, instead this time it’s more of a grin. “I—me too,” she chirps. “Cool,” I respond dimly, but she doesn’t get the hint to leave me alone. I grit my teeth together—this is why I don’t stay at places longer than to pick up whatever I’m getting and leave again. Awkward conversations with ponies that are just too friendly are awkward. Mercifully, somepony knocks on her front door right then—it’s the kind of thing that one usually only sees in movies or reads in books, these… welcomed, convenient interruptions, but I’m glad for it all the same. I go back to reading about the mating habits of timberwolves while she trots to the door. I hear it groan as it opens and then she greets the pony on the other side. I tune them out, even though it's kind of hard when they're talking so loud. The other pony has a squeaky voice, excite and bubbly. It's a voice that makes me want to plug my ears so that they don't bleed from the pitch and sheer volume. Doesn't this pony understand that this is a library? With an annoyed eye roll, I focus all of my attention on reading. It works for a while, and I get into my usual rhythm of a sip of tea every three pages while the librarian and the other pony continue to chatter in the background. I'm twenty pages in, with an empty teacup, when the cheerful, annoying voice breaks through my haze. “Hiii!” Harrumph. I sigh inaudibly and plaster a fake, strained smile on my face while my tail curls in frustration. I should have just taken the damn books and gone home. I turn slowly to face the pony I know is behind me and, um. Wow. Pink. Like, all over the damn place. “Hello,” I reply diplomatically, my brow arching on its own. “Hi,” the pink pony replies on a chirp, but says nothing more as we stare at each other. Her eyes are pretty—light blue, sparkling. I prefer green, but still—pretty. “I’ve never seen you around here before,” the pink mare offers. I nod, jerking and exasperated. “Yeah, I moved in two months ago.” I reply, and she smiles and—Celestia damn. Heh. She’s got a smile on her. Like… jeez. My fur stands on end naturally, and I grin back mostly because it’s hard not to. “Well, I’m Pinkie Pie!” she screeches in that voice of hers, and my smile drops into a wince. She offers a hoof and I stare at the pink limb for a while before extending my own and shaking gently. “Uh,” I stiffen, but continue. “Tea. Green... Green Tea.” “Nice to meet you!” she squeals, lighting up that dazzling smile again. Yeah, yeah, alright. Sure—cute eyes, million dollar smile. Annoying, though. “Yeah,” I reply on a breath and then focus my eyes on the librarian. She’s watching us curiously, and grins at me when I look at her. There are like… too many smiles in this room. Frankly, smiles make me uncomfortable. So does eye contact. And so does speaking. “I, uh,” I mutter, “I gotta go.” The librarian frowns, but then nods. I gather my books, brush past the pink pony, and follow her to the middle of the library where the check out log sits on the round table with that golden head on top—that thing always creeps me out. I give it a scowl for good measure, as the librarian jots down the names of my three books, and then my name beside all three. I glance at the log—the only names on there besides my own are somepony named ‘Twilight Sparkle’ and a ‘Rainbow Dash’. Well alright then. Guess I’m not the only one who uses the library after all. I gather my books and then turn towards the door. “Uh, nice meeting you Pinkie.” I throw over my shoulder, kind of meaning it but not really. “You too!” she chirps back, and I can almost feel her smile on the back of my neck as I walk through the door and close it behind me. Finally out. I shouldn’t have stuck around, really. Usually I just down my tea while trying not to taste it, sign out my books, and then leave. Oh well. Guess beggars can’t be choosy.