Act 2
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It was easier to cry in the rain. He could sniffle and choke and nopony could hear him or make fun of him. The constant white noise made him feel free to let go.
Popluck hated school now. All those hours of sitting next to Whip and I used to play in the puddles after storms and pretend we were sea monsters-
No. He was almost home, he couldn’t start blubbering again. What if his dad saw? His father loved it when Popluck was tough, always said he raised a strong colt. Strong colts didn’t cry.
Strong colts didn’t wish that Whip and I used to stay awake really late and tell ghost stories-
No. Popluck shook his head violently to get rid of the thoughts. Thinking wasn’t good right now; he could think later when he was in bed. That was how it had to be. Nopony else was allowed to see.
He pushed the door open and trudged inside. Ears ringing from the sudden lack of noise, he shook himself off and aimed a lazy kick at the door behind him. The smell of onions wafted through the house. His father was cooking?
“Popluck? Is that you?” a voice called from the kitchen.
“Yeah,” the colt replied, trotting into the living area.
His father walked in and looked at him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Did you h-have a nice day at school?”
It was starting to get scary. “Yeah…” Popluck replied slowly.
“That’s good. You j-just sit down and relax, s-son. Dinner’s almost ready.”
The stallion watched his child climb onto an armchair and curl up. For the briefest of moments, he thought about telling him to get a towel or a blanket so he didn’t drip everywhere. The thought was crushed quickly. Popluck could do whatever he wanted. He would have a delicious, hearty meal, and then go to sleep happily and nothing bad would ever happen to him.
Because the father was scared.
More scared than he had ever been in his entire life.
And in the light of this new fear, he saw things clearly.
Popluck was the most important thing in his life. Finding out that little Whippy was gone… well, who could have seen that coming? It could happen to anypony! Instantly, with no warning! And the little colt had spent enough play dates at Popluck’s house that the father couldn’t detach himself from it.
He returned to the stove and stirred some of the pots, just to keep busy. If he thought too hard about it, he’s end up barricading the whole house and guarding his son’s room with a knife.
Just make dinner. Just… dinner. Dinner. For Popluck. Don’t think. Just make dinner.
The stallion stirred more forcefully, splashing a few droplets out.
Every colt needs a good, healthy dinner to give them energy to learn and to play and to have friends and to shout and to run and to live-
“Dad?”
Popluck stood in the kitchen doorway, watching his father shakily drop a wooden spoon on the counter. He dropped back down to four hooves and slowly turned to face his son. Water was splattered everywhere from the increasingly violent mixing.
“Dad, you’re scaring me.”
The stallion’s eyes widened and he dived forward, pulling his son into a hug. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, sorry, sorry. Are y-you okay?”
“Yeah – Yeah, I’m fine dad.” Popluck hugged his father back tightly. “Are you?”
He barked a short laugh. “Of course you’re fine, you’re my little colt, aren’t you? Tough as tough can be.”
“Dad-“
“Nothing can bother you because you’re always fine, and you’ll always be fine, always fine.”
“I’m not gonna go like Whip, dad.” The words hurt, but somehow Popluck knew they had to be said.
There was a shocked silence in which the stallion slowly let go of his son. They looked at each other for a long minute. His strained expression softened and they hugged again, warmly and comfortingly this time.
“I’m sorry,” breathed the stallion. He swallowed to try and clear the lump in his throat. “I want you to know that you mean everything to me. You are my world, Popluck. I don’t think I could keep going if I lost you.” Tears ran from his burning eyes and into his son’s mane.
There are few things more horrible than seeing your father cry. The colt hugged him tighter than ever before and felt his own eyes begin to leak. “I love you daddy. I promise I won’t go.”
They wept together, father and son, for the fear of things to come.
“Daddy, I miss Whip,” Popluck couldn’t help it, now that everything was coming out there was no pretending anymore. One of his best friends was gone.
“I know. I know.” Celestia help him, the stallion missed him too. He was the perfect playmate for Popluck, brave and rowdy, always up for another adventure. How his parents must feel…
He pulled back and kissed his son on the forehead. And then again. And then he hugged him once more, determined to never let him go.
“Um…” whispered Popluck, “After dinner… can you sleep next to me, dad?” He felt like a little foal asking that, but he couldn’t be tough. Not right now.
His father smiled and nuzzled his cheek. “Of course.”
This was a new level of bonding. He had never seen Popluck open up like this before, and it really felt as if things were changing. They needed to spend more time together, just the two of them, so the bad memories could get further away.
“I think we should take a little holiday to grandpa’s farm for a week. What do you think?”
The colt sniffed. “Can we help herd cows and stuff?”
“Definitely.”
Finally, he smiled. “That sounds like fun.”
His father smiled too. “Yeah?”
Popluck giggled. “Yeah! And we can go camping too!”
“Good idea! I’ll pack your things while you’re at school tomorrow and we’ll catch the train when you get home. How does that sound?”
“You’re the best dad ever!” The colt embraced him with renewed enthusiasm.
They laughed together, father and son, for the hope of things to come.
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He had slept peacefully for the first time in recent memory. The stallion’s dreams were full of forests and fields, green and fresh, and Popluck ran and giggled beside him. Whippy’s death had brought them together again, and as he lay on the floor beside his son’s bed, he whispered ‘thank you’, hoping it would reach wherever the poor colt was.
After all, thought the father, isn’t that the best way to cope with death? To not let yourself get burdened by sadness, and instead honour the fallen by being happy? The final insult toward death itself, the reaper who takes so many of us, is to continue living without fear of it.
And so he smiled, and sat up to wake his son with a hug.
He embraced his son and kissed him gently on the forehead.
Popluck would go to school, and then the pair would spend a week of recovery out on the farm. Everything would be okay.
“Come on, you need to get ready,” he whispered, pulling back the sheets.
Glazed eyes met his, but his smile only grew.
Red stained everything, dripping onto the floor.
His hooves and face were soaked.
He started to laugh, almost choking on mirth.
The colt’s throat was torn open, chunks of flesh and muscle glistening in the morning light.
“Hahahahahahaha!”
An exposed blue vein twitched back and forth as the father shook his son. Drops of blood that hadn’t dried were flung out of the hole, splattering on his cheek.
He laughed and laughed, trickles of saliva hanging from his curled lips.
The stallion shook him harder, watching the head flop back and forth as the hole tore itself open more.
Something small and black fell off the colt’s face, twirling to the floor and floating in the sea of crimson.
A butterfly.