Snowdrop Is Two Feet to the Left of Your Bed
Admiral Biscuit
Another terrible day, you think. Work was . . . well, it was over. That much could be said for it, at least.
But it's a Monday night.
On the way home, you wrack your brain for any things you haven't tried yet to get rid of the ponies. Killing them outright might work, but you're hesitant to commit to that course of action. At the very least, it will probably leave you with a corpse to dispose of, and it's probably illegal, too.
Any more, you can hardly remember all your visitors. They've all blurred together into formless mass of pain and suffering.
They really ought to be banned by the Geneva Convention, you think, looking listlessly at the street leading to your home.
You'd had a few visits which had gone well, and you'd actually been deluded into thinking that perhaps things were taking a mellower turn. Right up until you had unceremoniously been dumped into your ex's bed.
Clearly, her anger management classes hadn't benefited her. One punch to the face could have been reflex, you'd grant her that, but there was clear malice behind the right hook that had followed and blackened your eye.
You shove the key into the door and push the door open ever so slowly, listening for the telltale clopping of hooves.
Nothing.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, examine your thankfully pony-free domicile, and open the fridge. At one point, you'd considered stocking it with a lifetime supply of lunch meat, in the hopes of scaring them off, but it'd be your luck to discover that they were carnivores.
Plus, you would have had to spend some serious time shopping, and that was something you had no intention of doing if you could help it. The grocery store was supposed to be a quick in-and-out, rather than an expedition.
You settle on a couple of sandwiches and a couple beers.
You sit down in front of the TV to eat, knowing in the back of your mind that it's a complete waste of time. You can't focus—you never can on Mondays. You know a visitor is coming, and you know by now that you can't ignore her.
Why is it you've had a flood of girl ponies, a sex-crazed griffon, and even a fruity serpent, but you can't get a date to save your life? The universe has a special hatred for you, it seems.
By the time the end credits of the second movie are scrolling by in super high-speed—anything to cram in a few more commercials—you can barely keep your eyes open. Your visitor, whoever she is, is at least being quiet.
Or else she hasn't showed up yet.
It takes one more beer to work up enough courage to head for the bedroom and find out if you've finally escaped the madness, even though deep in your heart you know you have not. There will be a pony or griffon or heaven only knows what in your bed.
You shove open the bedroom door cautiously and are barely able to believe your tired eyes. The bedsheets are smooth . . . well, no they're not; the bed is as unmade as it was when you left this morning. Nevertheless, there isn't a big enough rumple to be hiding a pony.
Barely able to contain yourself, you gleefully walk to your bed.
When you're most of the way across the room, you trip over a warm equine lump curled atop a pile of dirty clothes, hit your mattress at the only angle where instead of catching you gently, it bounces you back, and then slam into the floor hard enough to rattle the bedroom windows.
"Jesus Harold Christ on a pogo stick, why?" You rub your chin. "Also, ow!"
The pony, who until a moment ago was sleeping peacefully on your week-old work clothes, leaps up in alarm, and flies directly into your closet, where she immediately becomes entangled on the collection of empty hangers. Before you can get back to your feet, she works her way loose, crashes to the ground, and gallops into the back wall of the closet.
You see her shaking her head, but before she can smash into anything else you're across the room, grabbing for her. Her stumpy little legs are no match for your stride.
In the ensuing scuffle, she manages to kick you in the nuts, and whack you across the face with a wing, before you finally get enough of a grip on her to hold her away from your body.
"Whoa there, calm down," you tell her. "And stop kicking at my face, okay?" Sadly, this is an experience you know all too well. Children are the devil; why should pony foals be any different? If you had a dime for every time some entitled soccer mom's demon spawn had vandalized your department, you'd be sitting on a tropical island, accepting umbrellaed drinks from bikini-clad waitresses.
Naturally, your calming words only provoke the opposite reaction, and she squirms around even more in your hands. Your grasp slipping, you take the only remaining option—roll to your side so that she can get her hooves on the ground, and then shove yourself into as tight a ball as possible, in case she comes back kicking.
Fortunately, she flees again. Or tries to, at least. This time she stays on the ground, and heads back the way she’d come. After caroming off nearly every piece of furniture in the room, she finally relocates your dirty laundry pile and belly-flops on top of it.
Then she does something truly bizarre—and you've seen more bizarre than anyone else on Earth, you're sure. She grabs the pile in her hooves, clutches it against her belly, and flies up until she just brushes the ceiling of the bedroom.
And then she stops flapping.
For a second, she hangs there, before plummeting back to the ground. Luckily for her, her vertical flight had a rather distinct diagonal element to it, and she manages to gracelessly land on your bed.
You've had more than enough of this game. Little miss clumsy is going to destroy your room with her head if she keeps panicking. "Would you just calm down?" you mutter. "You kicked me in the nuts, you know."
"My head hurts," she replies, feeling her way around your bed with her forehooves until she locates the blankets and worms her way underneath.
"You flew into a wall, then you ran into a wall. Of course your head hurts."
"Your cloud doesn't work right," she says accusingly, her voice muffled by the covers.
"My dick probably doesn't any more, either." You slump back down in the closet. "Sorry. Sorry for the shitty welcome. Sorry for kicking you. I didn't mean any of those things, if it makes you feel any better."
"Where am I?" She sticks her muzzle out of the covers, and you get your first look at her face. It's painfully adorable, especially when she reaches out a hoof and rubs her snout. "This isn't Cloudsdale."
"Welcome to my humble abode." You hold your arm out, pointing as you speak. "Over there, we have my nightstand, across the hall, my bathroom, and in the center of my room, my bed, with a pony in it." As you continue the visual tour, you find yourself becoming increasingly perplexed by the way her eyes stay focused at you no matter where you point.
All the other ponies figured out pointing.
Maybe this one's retarded.
"And that's pretty much it," you say. "In the morning, you'll be returned to wherever it is you live."
"I don't want to be here," she decides.
"Yeah, well I don't want you to be here, either, but the universe has it out for me, and I guess you pissed it off, too. Listen, I'm not really comfortable here in the closet. I've got a hanger trying to rape me—you're not going to panic if I get up are you?"
She shakes her head, then ducks back under the illusory safety of the covers.
You stand up and stretch out, making sure to look down the front of your pants to make sure there isn't a hoofprint there.
She sticks her head back out, and you guiltily cover yourself again, before moving towards the bed. She doesn't react at all—her ears stay pointed in your direction, and her head follows you, but she seems unaware that you're moving towards her.
And then you notice how milky her eyes are, and all of a sudden you feel like the biggest douche in the entire universe. All the pieces click into place with a cognitive snap. "You're blind, aren't you?"
She gives you a tentative nod.
You're at a complete loss, and you righteous anger vanishes like a Twinkie at a Weight Watcher's Anonymous meeting. You can't stay mad at a scared, blind foal. Even if she did kick you in the junk.
"You know what?" you tell her. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable until the morning. I'll just sleep downstairs. If you need anything, just shout, okay?"
"Can you get some new sheets? These are wet."
"How—"
She cringes away from your voice, and burrows back under the covers. From underneath, you hear her muffled voice. "You scared me. I'm sorry."
Against your better judgement, you reach forward and began gently stroking the her head through the covers. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. I’ll get some clean sheets, and maybe a glass of warm milk for you, alright?”
She’s still shivering under the covers, but you can feel her tentative nod under your hand.