//------------------------------// // The Monster Remembers. // Story: My Little Monster: Friendship is Universal. // by Hopefullygoodgrammar //------------------------------// The Everfree was rapidly turning into a swamp under the incessant torrent of icy rain; the timberwolves had retreated farther in to be with their young, the cragodiles and star-spiders had stopped their hunting in favor of sleep, and the Ursas slept on through the onslaught in the dark of their caves, dead to the world. There was only one creature in the Everfree who was out and about. The Frankenstein Monster heaved a vaporous sigh and turned his head to the gray sky, letting the rain sooth his burning skin; He was running low on energy, and would go into a deep slumber if he was not revitalized soon. A bolt of lightning lashed out form the clouds, but didn’t hit him. This aggravated the Monster greatly and he stomped a hoof in frustration, the force of the impact creating a small crater that filled with rainwater. The Monster looked down at his face, framed by the muddy edges of the crater, and hissed. He had never liked his face, it made him an outsider, a freak, a monster that men would try to kill on sight. Of course, they had never succeeded, their bullets and knives and fire hurt him, but nothing could kill him. He had already survived floods, a fall into a sulfur pit, being set on fire and being crushed and battered in more explosions than he could count, though he couldn’t count very high. Why had he lived so long? That was a question that had plagued him for years. He knew a bit about how he had come to be: he knew that his body had been made from the dead and that he had been given life through lightning. “Your father was Frankenstein, but your mother was the Lightning!” The Monster let out a low moan of sadness as he remembered Ygor, the broken-necked shepard who had been his only friend in the world. But the Son of Frankenstein had taken him away. “Frankenstein.” The name slithered up from his throat like a wet snake, the name was venomous, hated above all else. The man who had given him life and then rejected him as if he were nothing. The Monster had wondered why his own father had cast him aside for many a century before finally coming to the conclusion that Henry Frankenstein was nothing more than a madman who was blinded by the need for “Perfection”, a state that the Monster knew that he would never embody, not in a million years. The Monster felt tears well up in his eyes. He still wondered if his creator would have accepted him if he had been truly “Perfect”. But that was only a dream, and one that rarely came to him; He was far too busy fleeing from people who wished to either kill him or use him. He had been trapped in that cycle for so long that any span of time that he could spend alone was truly comforting to him. But they always found him. They always ruined his peace. The Living. thought the Monster with a snarl. Oh how he hated the living! Even in this new world he knew that the strange creatures that lived here would hunt him. But at least they were small and fragile-looking; They’d be easy to break. The Monster smiled to himself as he stood up, black lips drawing tightly over yellowed teeth. The little horses who lived in this world were weak, they had to be! No strong creature could be so thin and small A strange sound pierced his thoughts, a familiar sound: it was the sound of someone crying and It sounded close. The Monster began to move towards the sound, the sadness in it drawing him to it like a moth to a flame. He had never heard one of the Living cry like that: it wasn’t terrified weeping or mournful wailing, it was just sad. No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he had entered between two massive oaks that led out onto a winding dirt road, one that led to a nearby town whose silhouette he could see behind the curtain of rain. But he couldn’t see the one who was crying until he looked down. There was a small horse sitting alone in the road, her tiny frame shuddering with sobs, an oddly-colored board with wheels lay broken at her hooves. As he watched, the little horse wiped an orange hoof across her eyes and shook some of the falling rain out of her purple hair. “Stupid Diamond Tiara...stupid Silver Spoon.” he heard her whimper. The Monster cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at the still-sniffling horse: it was small and had a high-pitched voice, so it was probably a child, and its voice was also feminine, so it was probably a girl, but then again, who could tell in a world like this? The Monster didn’t like any of the Living, but he disliked the children of the Living far less than the adults: the children were younger, far kinder than their aged counterparts. The Monster even remembered befriending a little girl whose ball he had retrieved from a rooftop. But that had been just one child, he had met others, the first person that he had met after his escape from that drafty tower had been a little girl. She had also been his first victim. The Monster hadn’t meant to kill her, she had shown him how she had made daisies float in the water and he had picked her up and tossed her in to see if she would do the same, but she never came up and the Monster had fled after realizing what he had done. The Monster felt his heart tighten as he remembered her shocked and frightened cries. She had been so very young….and he had killed her. He often wondered if the townspeople would have been kinder to him if she had lived, maybe she would have spoken up or him, maybe she would have been his friend. Friend. That was a word that seared his throat whenever he said it, that made him sick with envy to watch the Living practice. Why did they get to have friends and not him? What made them so special? But, even as that often-thought-of question entered his mind, the answer came charging behind: It was because he was ugly, dead, a killer, a monster. The Monster hissed out through his teeth and then turned to leave. SNAP!! The Monster stopped and stared down at the broken branch under his hoof, a second later he heard a soft, muffled gasp. Slowly, he turned back and saw the orange horse staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Alright, team. It’s time to nut up or shut up!” bellowed Captain Swift Wing, looking at his crew of weather pegasi with a critical eye. “As most of you know, there has been a massive, unscheduled thunderstorm roarin’ above Ponyville, we haven’t been able to contact the weather pegasi in that town, so we’re gonna go in and bust some heads, ‘cause pegasi do NOT SLEEP ON THE JOB!!” No sooner had his thunderous last words left his mouth than his crew roared back in appreciation. Swift Wing’s aged face split into a smile, his 40-odd years of service had made him quite distinguished, earning him a reputation for speed and bravery that only one other living pony has surpassed: that pony being the famous Rainbow Dash. I’ve gotta remember to race that youngster, see what she’s really made of. he thought as he looked out at the horizon. There was a storm brewing, he could see the thick clouds and the massive branches of lightning that flew from them, he could hear every rumble of thunder echo across the grassy plains. It was powerful, but not in the same way that the pagasi would make. The pegasi always made it their mission to keep the thunderstorms from getting too out of hoof, they would keep the rainfall down and make sure that no flooding happened, and they’d make sure that nopony was struck by lightening; A pegasus thunderstorm was a work of art, But this storm wasn’t like that: it was big, dark and carrying an ominous weight to it. Swift Wing could feel the electricity in the air and the damp made his wing joints ache. It’s like some kinda monster. thought the captain as the storm let out another roar. He shivered and looked back at his crew, who were doing wing-ups and stretches in preparation for the task at hand. I hope everything goes over well. he thought as he watched them, but something in his gut told him that he should be prepared, because the storm was going to put up a fight. And with that thought Captain Swift Wing turned back to his crew and began barking orders, this time making extra sure to keep them in line. Behind him the storm grew….and a shadow made its way through the thick clouds.