//------------------------------// // 1 – Dealt Too Soon [Sad] // Story: Addenda // by Miller Minus //------------------------------// Recommended Reading: Up There The shock I was in that night is a painting. It sits – practically alone – in my museum of memory for whenever I need a reminder of what cruelty is. I didn't know at the time, of course, how far I had gone. No, the experience itself is just vivid on its own. It felt like my body was giving up fighting, while my heart desperately raced to stay awake and my mind revealed how long ago it had broken. But that was how I felt, not her. "The next time it happens, it'll be round six. Nopony's ever needed a round six before. The rate for round four alone is just shy of fifty percent." That was the tinder, I suppose. And when round six began, and it was different, he decided to throw the match on me as well. "Get out of my way. You know you can't help. Just leave him here and come back later." "I should have given her a name." My son looks at me for all of three seconds. The first passes and he registers what I said. The second passes and it repulses him. The third, and he wordlessly turns away. Then I walk away, and let the shock guide me to the kitchen. The ambient heat wraps around my fore-hooves and suspends my fur in a lifeless wisp that entrances me. My wings are devoid of semblance. My legs shake just slightly. That’s wrong, I finally think. She doesn't need to a name. She isn't Diamond Spark, Morning Pasture, Purely Whites, anything like that. Nopony can call her anything except 'that strange white filly in the window’. What’s wrong with her? Oh, that poor thing. That was how I wanted it. They wouldn't care to know her name, anyways. She would always be that damaged little filly from down the road. Maybe she could come out and play? Oh, of course she can’t. My mistake. But to us, she is Love. She is Sis', Kiddo, Sweetheart, Shortstop, Li'l Slugger. My son is better at pet names than I am. I often just use his, since she likes them so much. Oh, except Munchkin. Munchkin is mine, and I love it. What in Equestria is a munchkin? “She seems fine... maybe it’s a false alarm?” “It's strange... but that's impossible. Pay attention.” No, I don’t want to listen. Don’t make me listen. I stare at the moon through the window. It's disgustingly bright. I can never understand why Celestia does that every few months. An ‘Ultramoon’, they call it. She brings it so close to us, and she angles the sun so precisely for it to bathe us with its entire illuminated face. How can she find the time to construct such a perfect image above us, when there are children she's not writing back? She needs help, I think. Controlling the sun and moon and stars for thousands of years has left her clueless. After all, in her rush to so perfectly place that chunk of pointless rock she didn't realize how close she left the sun to my hoov— "Ah!" I wrench my hooves out of the water, stumble back and thrust my rump into the dirt floor. It's not a hard thing to do, sitting down. But when your heart is running at the aching speed mine does during every round, you tend to stumble. As I desperately hope I hadn't caused a disruption in the other room, I blow on my hooves and chuckle madly, yet sincerely, at how dirty they are. "I forgot the soap." I take a deep, capitulating breath and relax my muscles as my heart pathetically quickens. I break free from my trance and adjust my ears to hear the room down the hall. He is ordering him around in there, as always. As if he has the right. As if obeying his every word will cause everything to repair. As if my son was to blame for the everything that she endures. There is a crash, a bit of a gasp, and a tiny tirade. I let my singed hooves cool in the air. Fine. I'll listen. But I won't pay attention. "Do you want to knock over her bookshelf while you're at it?" "I said I'm SORRY, okay? Just... focus, please!" As I stand up and make my way back to the sink, I wonder what's so special about tonight. Why, the moon is so gorgeous behind the lightly falling snow. She could be spending her night staring out her window, refusing to rest. What does it want from her now? Is it because she kept standing up? Is that what she was doing wrong? Maybe after she finally catches up with herself Celestia can take a moment to answer my questions, too. Following the soap, I pour a few drops of cold drinking water into the bath. Then a few more, and a few more; and with a frightened laugh, I tip the whole bucket in. The water splashes over the counter and floor, and it slashes my face with a small stream of searing liquid. The soap stings my eyes and my bangs stick to my forehead. I wait for the water to stagnate again and put the first dish in. It's hers. Of course it's hers. She had just finished her night's meal of dry, mashed potatoes, an assortment of nuts and a side of applesauce. I had slipped the capsules into the potatoes this time. She always knew they were in there somewhere, but she liked making a game of finding them. One last wash, I think, and I want to cry. But nothing is coming, and I know why. It finally stuck. It had taken long enough. "Stop crying, Mom. Crying doesn't help. It only makes it worse." So feisty. So sure of herself for age 6. One of the two things she got from her loving father. If only he had stuck around to teach her as well. She would have had somepony to talk to, and so would he. Crying could help, I think. Why, how else am I going to get out of wracking by brain for a way I could actually help? A pattern of beeping starts in the other room. Heart rate. Yes, that's how it started last time, as well. Except last time, it had been all three at once, and the doctor and I just froze in horror. Heart rate, respiratory rate, blood pressure. Three steps down. And then I remember what those three sounds really mean. They mean that in just a few sleepless days I'll be standing in front of a small crowd of family and friends, with a 7-year old black dress and a few flowers in my mane. "What a stallion" They didn't notice it at the time, but I was being sarcastic. I stood in my stunning dress, beautifully tossed mane and freshly glistening eyes as the tears streamed down my face and successfully ruined the whole image. "What a stallion." It caused me to catch my tongue and stutter, and that was the end of my speech. The rest was just blubbering and consoling as I held my aching stomach and walked back to my seat while his father sheepishly took my place. I wasn't crying for him. No, I had done quite enough of that. I was crying for myself. My stupid, useless, flower-arranging, waste of— The next crash comes from me. There's a shattering in between my hooves and a sharp pain stabs my leg. I bite my lip to not make a noise, but I fail. "Shit." She didn't need that dish anymore, I remind myself. I pull my hooves out of the water and watch as the chunks of ceramic either float or sink depending on their size. I watch the red spot manifest itself rapidly onto the cloth draped over my hoof. I stop myself halfway through a sigh to listen for the beeping. It’s gone. All there is is panting now. What a pity, I think. It’s happened. My body continues to relax as my heart slams my calm into submission and runs at full speed. I remove the cloth and gaze at the tiny stream of blood emptying me into the sink. It isn't very deep. I can continue. At least the doctor is no longer occupied. He can finally put himself to good use and bandage me up before he takes all his awful equipment and finally leaves forever. He can even get another chance to scowl at me like some special needs child he had been forced to make friends with by his teacher. "It's coming back. Stay sharp." Oh, the school. That beautiful, sweet school. What was I going to tell them? Every two weeks I was there to discuss the plan. How it would start, how they would catch her up to the level of the rest of the fillies and colts, how they could help her make friends despite having missed the first recess ritual. That saintly principal would always place his hoof on my shoulder and in the most polite tone say: "The date doesn't matter. She has a place here whenever she’s ready." I make the decision to not show up again. It's a happy decision. What a load off my back that will be. They would figure it out. They're smart ponies, after all. Everypony would figure it out. No more twinkling eyes peering out the window despite strict instructions that she should remain in bed. No more awkward glances and smiles at the prisoner. Once I empty her room and rent it out to another soul, the whole town will know. I can be consoled. I can go back to work. I can run errands again. I can have the normal, empty life that I dreamed of since she was born without a speck of colour in her fur. I can be me again. I can be— "Mom?" I stay still. It's about to become real. I hate that part. The realization that her tiny voice no longer belongs to me. That her drooping eyes no longer have the energy to open. I turn to see my son resting his foreleg on the kitchen entrance, with his forehead against the wood. Draped across his back is the crumpled pile of pure snow, eyes almost closed and barely holding form. For a moment my mind toys with me and plays me a minuscule flutter in her eyelids. Oh, that’s good. He’s getting a head-start on clearing out her roo— There it is again. It's so small, but it's there. It must be the last breath leaving her body, I think. That must be her muscles’ last amount of energy bringing her shoulder to her neck. That must be the final trick of death, cracking open her eyes and locking them onto mine. And my heart finally breaks. "Wh—... what..." I pathetically breathe. The water overflows from his eyes. "I don’t know... she was... but she... but she just... calmed down, and-and she’s—" He heaves an exhausted sigh and smothers it with his leg. He almost bites through his own skin when I drop the next plate and it splits on the floor. I charge over and he recoils, leaning his side against the wall and accidentally letting the barely lifeless body on his back slide down his wing. He gasps and tries to prop her back up. But she falls directly into my forelegs. I come to a complete halt and the tears come to a complete start. I embrace the fighter and roll back onto the dirt. A few seconds pass, and I feel a response. A small hug back. A murmur. I cry so pathetically. So stupidly and undeservedly I hold her tightly to my chest. My nest. She should have been in bed, sure, but she also should have been... "Does this mean..." I finally whisper. I don't dare dream. "She won," comes the answer at the door. The doctor is standing there, packed and ready to leave. I sit up straight and clutch her defensively to me. He reaches towards me and rips my leg away from her, inspecting it rudely and scowling. My son jumps up and lays a stern hoof across his neck. "Well done," he teases me with a sniff at my soaking red hoof and a glower at my son. "I’ll get my gauz—" I tear my leg back from him and hold her impossibly closer. He stares at me like the offended God he thinks he is. My heart slows, and my body tenses, and I realize what I want from him. "I told you kids have better chances, didn't I? She’s not fine, mind you," he begins, "FD might be beaten, but she’s missed very important developmental stages for a filly. Her wings are stunted most of all. She’ll likely never fl—" "Get out?" I interrupt. My head slowly oscillates on my neck as a dumbfounded smile spreads across my face. My son moves to shepherd him. "What did you just say to m—" "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" I scream. It's rude. Unthankful. I catch the bags under his eyes and his slouched head soon after he flinches, but I just need him gone. I can always apologize later. "Let’s go," my son orders him. He sputters a retort, but decides against speech, and I get the chance to watch the horrified visage of my daughter’s saviour disappear. No, that’s wrong. She had no saviour. Ponies who needed saviours were ponies incapable of surpassing the impossible themselves. He helped. My son helped. But she was the one who made it. She wasn't the one in the room who needed a saviour. She was the saviour. She clings tighter to my chest. She shudders a little, and I caress her mane. Truthfully, I'm looking for the new colours to start growing in, but I only find white stained red. It's too early. "M—...Mom?" She squeaks gorgeously. "Shhhh..." I whisper, folding her ears back and holding her close, "you should be in bed..." "I don’t..." She pauses to take in a stuttering breath. "I don’t wanna be in bed." "Then forget it," I reply, "let’s do something else." And she falls asleep in my embrace. ... It’s a dark place I went to that night. I hope I never go there again. But whether it be for a night, a year, or a millennium, I suppose just being there doesn't make you undeserving of miracles.