//------------------------------// // 7: The Dark Tarn // Story: Obsolution // by not plu //------------------------------// ...and just as nothing could be done to prevent the demise of our utility as elements, nothing could be done to prevent mine. I am sorry, oh so very sorry, that I was no longer able to be what you all wanted me to be... It’s not exactly easy to procure poison in Ponyville. Maybe if you’re somewhere larger: Manehatten, Canterlot, where there are shadier ponies you can go to, but in Ponyville, everything’s supposed to be perfectly idyllic. So there’s no need for poison. But if you need some, for whatever reason, here’s what you do: Go to the library. Check out a book on herbology. Tell the librarian you need it for testing out some new possible flavor combinations. Bring it home. Lock your bedroom door. Search through the book until you find a plant that is beneficial in low doses, but toxic in high ones. Go to your friend’s house. Ask her to ask the local witch doctor to make you a potion from this plant. Tell her your sister said it would help you focus. Write the name of the plant down. Go home. Lock your bedroom door. Wait for three days. Go back to your friend’s house. Take the potion. Thank her. Bring it home. Lock your bedroom door. Put the poison on your nightstand. Get some paper, a quill, and ink. Wait. Pinkie Pie couldn’t remember the last time she’d been outside. It had been a while, hadn’t it? Time flies when you’re miserable, doesn’t it? No. Not miserable. Miserable wasn’t a good word. Miserable implies that she still had the capacity to feel emotion. And she knew she was far beyond that. She crossed over to the mirror which hung on the back of the door that had remained firmly locked for who knows how long. She stared at her reflection. This figure before her certainly wasn’t Pinkie Pie. It couldn’t be. Pinkie Pie’s mane wasn’t perfectly flat and straight. Pinkie Pie’s eyes weren’t bloodshot and dilated. Pinkie Pie’s cheeks weren’t devoid of all blood. Pinkie Pie’s coat wasn’t patchy. No, this certainly wasn’t Pinkie Pie, but some imposter who had taken her very soul and being in the night, leaving her devoid of what gave her life purpose. If she could have still felt emotion, she would’ve been angry. What about didn’t matter because none of it mattered, nothing could matter any more. Pinkie was done. She wasn’t depressed though. When she had recently come to Ponyville, she found she couldn’t understand how ponies couldn’t be permanently happy like she was, and so she checked out a book on depression from the library. It was a hard book to find. Everything in Ponyville is supposed to be perfectly idyllic. Everypony's supposed to be perfectly happy. She didn’t enjoy the book. She told herself it was fictional, or at least that she’d never end up that way. So she wasn’t depressed. So she didn’t have anything to justify. She walked over to her trashcan, where sixteen suicide notes sat, crumpled and smudged. She reached in, but recoiled as her hoof brushed up against a red-soaked tissue. Sixteen times she couldn’t say it, and she couldn’t say why. For weeks now, she’d been drafting the perfect one, coming up with snippets of sentences in her head. But when the pen finally touched paper, it all seemed so useless. Useless. Useless was a funny word. Its cacophony of S’s makes it slip perfectly off the tongue, yet the weight in its meaning makes it hang in the air for far too long. Useless. She pulled out a dictionary from under her bed and flipped through it. It had been gifted to her as a filly; a large, deep red-bound tome which had become dust-covered due to its infrequent use. “Useless, adjective: not fulfilling or not expected to achieve the intended purpose or desired outcome.” So what’s my intended purpose? Desired outcome? She paused to ponder this. Do I even have one? All she ever wanted to do was make other ponies happy. When they smiled or laughed, Pinkie could mirror their emotions. Twilight once had called her a hopeless extrovert. It seemed like a compliment at the time. But she wasn’t making anypony happy. She couldn’t have. What friends she once had had jetted off to Canterlot or Manehatten or Celestia-cares-where. And if they were still in Ponyville, perfect, happy Ponyville, they were too busy to come around anymore. She took a deep breath, or at least tried, and tried to remember something happy. Rainbows on rock farms. Finding new friends. Singing through the streets. Parades and parties. No. It was too painful- it would always be too painful, because it would always be just out of reach. Useless. Emotions kept creeping up under her skin, threatening to burst out in a tidal wave of blood and guts and secrets and memories and deep, dark, terrible thoughts. Her breathing ragged, she struggled to push everything down, to make it all go grey again. Struggling to catch her breath, she sat down, trying her best to focus, to push everything out- But then again, what if she didn’t? What if she didn’t want to start breathing again? It would be easy, it would be over, wouldn’t it? She needed to stop the thoughts that were unrelentlessly swirling through her brain, smashing the edges, she needed to have something to hold onto... Name: Pinkamena Diane Pie Place of residence: Sugarcube corner, Ponyville, Equestria Occupation: N/A Mane: Pink Coat: Pink Eyes: Blue Intended purpose: Making ponies smile Desired outcome: Happiness Date achieved: N/A It’s not easy to procure poison in Ponyville. It’s not easy to stare at the bottle until your vision goes blurry. It tastes slightly sweet at first, but has a bitter aftertaste. After all, that’s when the regret sets in. You’ll feel your heart racing, but ignore that. Your vision will go soon enough. It won’t matter if you wanted this. All you have to do is wait.