//------------------------------//
// Loss will always bring you back there. 
// Story: In The Waiting Room of Grief 
// by memphisgurl 
//------------------------------//

A stallion, on the far-side bench in the far-side
Corner of the room, looks at the far-side plane of life 
Through the far-side window in the 
Far-side corner of the far-side room.
He can't stay still.
He bites his lips and glares enviously at the swaying
Trees outside- dancing in the wind.
I should be focusing on
The screams coming from inside the ominous- looking door.
I should be wondering about the pain and whether it will
Hurt as much as people say it hurts- even before the world fades.
I should be thinking of this filled jar
My trembling hooves are unable to firmly clutch....
But I do none of these things.
Instead I stare at this stallion who
Reminds me of:
The crushed hopes and dreams I store
Beneath my bed every night and
The bloody content of the brimming glass jar
In my hooves.
The old mare sitting in front of me coughs loudly
And her weathered hooves are too stringy to
Stop the particles of her saliva
From sailing right towards me- straight into 
The content of my jar.
I laugh.
"You've lost your soul now," I say , "on top of everything else."
She stares at me for a long time.
"I wish."
Her voice is the squeaky sound only
Scratched and overused CDs make.
She drops her hooves and starts wringing them
With a passion that has my
Insides broiling with envy. 
"You shouldn't be here." I blurt,
My voice now arctic and sharp.
I expect her to contest this, but
She only gives me a leveled look,
Then turns away.
"You shouldn't be here!" I persist,
My voice's tempo rising like the tide.
Another scream pierces the growing silence 
And I turn towards the sound,
My heart beating with exhilaration and dread.
It will be my turn soon.
I clasp my jar to my chest.
As long as it doesn't spill over,
Everything might just be okay.
Okay.
I cackle at my humorless joke and
He finally turns to look at me.
I try to smile or frown or say hi or laugh or glare
But I can't do anything because I'm paralyzed
By the wintry snow in his eyes.
"Craig Worndown please." a voice announces 
And the ominous door finally opens and 
A ghost-like mare walks out,
A gaping hole in her chest.
Somehow our eyes have shifted to her
And when we look back at each other,
I see my reflection looking at me
With eyes that dare me to stay.
"You could still leave though" he says,
A cruel smirk on his lips.
I raise my chin in defiance
And glare at his picturesque face.
He laughs.
Then abruptly stands up and walks through the open doctor's door,
His hooves buried in his pockets.
A chill runs through my veins.
"You like him," the old mare says.
And it shocks me that she's right.
But I fixate on my jar because it's the
One thing still in my possession-
5 liters of my blood swim in it,
Reminding me of the one art 
I never could master: loss.
"You shouldn't be here." 
Her words sear my skin.
I pin her with my blazing eyes,
Fury rising inside me.
I grip my jar tighter and hold it up
For her to see.
"I have more right to be here
Than you ever will." 
Her smile transmutes into pity.
But she says nothing else. 
Instead, she fully angles herself towards me and
I get a glimpse, for the first time, of
The myriad of scars embedded in her face.
I cannot help but gasp in shock. 
"I thought they only appeared on 
Our hearts." I whisper.
"Dear,-" She starts, but the office doors bust open again
And he strolls out of the room, cutting her short.
I can't help but notice the unfathomable abyss
Churning where his heart was meant to be.
"Lyra Foreverbereft please."
And that's my cue. 
My pulse is naked fire.
This time when he looks at me,
His eyes are empty; devoid of even ice. 
"I'm Lyra." I tell him,
But he is already walking through me,
Out of the room.
He got what he wanted. And now he's gone.
I have the urge to run out and 
Empty my jar in the gutters down the street but 
It is too late to back down. The old woman's gaze
Burns through my back
And I walk straighter, my chin higher in the air.
"Well what have we got here?" 
The doctor eyes my jar
And I stare in mounting fear at
The bleeding utensils sprawled
On his desk.
" Give me the jar dear," he says and
Ushers me to lie down. He weighs it on the scale and
Whistles in wonder.
"You deserve the full treatment: 100% 
Dose of Narcotising Agent. 
The whole heart removed."
And his diagnostic completed,
He wears his gloves and tells me to close my eyes.  My heart beats in protest and churns and 
Screams as if it knows
That it will be ripped out of me
In just a few seconds.
And my blood rushes through my veins
In pure white-hot anger as if it too knows
It will soon be replaced
By the raving N.A which 
Isn't inclined to leak out of pony bodies.
"Ready?" 
He whispers. A cold metallic object trails down my chest.
My mind revs back to the moment I was born,
Already suffering from Loss' stony grip
On my innocent heart,
And I tell him "yes".  Yes.
I will not be tormented by
The cold daggers of loss anymore.
I will not be buried in
Frigid graves of fiery agony.
I will not lose my mind,
Craving for release.
I will not be the damned prisoner  Of lonely Misery.
Faces flash through my head,
Far Side Stallion smiles at me through The hazy fog of my hopes and deceptions
So tightly intermingled,
And just before the blade pierces my skin,
I open my eyes and
Absorb the last drop of pain
Saturating the air.
This is what you wanted girl.
This is what you get.