//------------------------------// // Sentimentalism // Story: Slow Fade // by Bluegrass Brooke //------------------------------// Rory lay under his favorite tree in Central Park, undeterred by the half-melted snow soaking his belly. Despite the chill and the damp, Rory found the snow infinitely more preferable to his room. Though he could live without the ‘display.’ All around the open field, fillies and colts were racing and playing a variety of snow games. As today marked the last day of school and the start of winter holidays, everypony logically wanted to celebrate. Even though he generally frowned upon such outward exuberance, Rory found himself actually wanting to join them. Of course, he could no more expect an invitation than he would a kind word from Father. Even if they did not recognize him—a rather long shot—they would certainly see his condition. Though nearly nine years old, Rory had yet to hit a second growth spurt like the other colts. His lank frame had only gotten more sunken in and he had not gained so much as a half inch in six months. It did not take a professor to know the reason why. Rory knew it full well. Though he was a growing earth pony, they refused to feed him any more than he had been as a five year old. He tried to explain that he needed more food, but, after his latest request left him in the box for three days, he dared not ask again. Rory shook his head. No need to worry about a factor he could never hope to change. Maybe he’d get on, or, maybe he wouldn’t. At this point, he just wanted to watch the happy strangers and forget about life for a while. Rory got the distinct impression of looking at a moving painting. Does that make me a painter? He chuckled half-heartedly to himself. I wish. After a time, the sound of a small child’s cry spraypainted a black streak across the picturesque scene. Rory’s heart sank as he saw a toddler crying beside a now decapitated snowpony. No! Don’t do that. Stop, you need to stop. If he cried, then his parents would come and— Rory gritted his teeth as the colt’s mother came galloping over. A familiar, blood-chilling sensation came over him. Please, don’t! He didn’t do anything wrong! Miraculously, the mare did not scold, but got down on the snow beside the colt, hugging him tight. What? Why did she—he’s a unicorn, yes that’s it. But, Rory could see even from at least twenty feet away that the colt was an earth pony just like him. And yet, his unicorn mother hugged him as if he weren’t. The blood rushed to his ears as he watched her hug and rock the colt like he was the most precious creature in the world to her. His little green hooves wrapped around her neck, and, though he dripped snot all over her done-up mane, she continued to smile. Rory closed his eyes, trying to control the shaking of his limbs. Why was that colt worthy of being held on like that? He had been a better toddler than that crybaby. Quiet, polite, non-argumentative . . . fearful. Just the way they wanted him to be. So why didn’t they ever hold him like that? I did something wrong, I must have. Rory got to his hooves, realizing for the first time how cold he had become. When he got home, he would take a short shower— they didn’t like him taking baths anyway—and then he’d read in his room. They liked that. And, if he was exceptionally lucky, she would speak to him just a little softer . . . Three hours. Over three hours of waiting for her to come home. When she did, it was straight to her room as always. Another hour later, she emerged, dressed in a shimmery dress and mane in an elaborate net braid. Rory knew he should be quiet and let her come to him, but he really wanted to see her before she left. He trotted over to her position beside the living room mirror.“Good evening, Mother!” She twitched, swishing her tail. “What have I told you about shouting, Rory?” Oops. His heart lurched. “Sorry, Mother. I just wanted to say hi.” “Really?” Her harsh voice chilled him to the bone. “You just want to know if I’m going to feed you. Such a glutton, always obsessing over food.” Rory’s stomach churned so violently, he thought he might be sick. Glutton. The word perpetually slapped on every time he so much as mentioned food. I’m not a glutton. He hated food, hated its necessity, and the way it made them angry at him. But he couldn’t live without it. So why were they so bent on keeping it from him? Starlight started towards the door, but he blocked her way. “What?” she snarled without so much as looking at him. “You have given me your little greeting and will not receive your dinner until I return.” “I-I—” Spit it out, Rory! “I wanted a . . . a hu-hug before you go . . .” This time she did look at him, but it was not with her usual disinterest. Her face contorted into one of purest disgust. “And why would I sully my coat with your filthy germs?” The words scraped at his heart. “But, I saw a unicorn give her earth pony colt a hug today,” he blurted out. “She was happy. Maybe it’d make you happy too.” Starlight’s disgust only deepened. “Nothing about you makes me happy, Rory.” Without another word, she strode quickly out the door, slamming it shut with her magic. Rory stood rooted to the spot, quivering weakly. Every ounce of anticipation had vanished, and he wondered why he even thought it would work. Slinking back to his room, he collapsed on his bed. His eyes fell to the textbook, willing it to turn into something edible. Yeah, maybe he was a glutton after all. But he couldn’t help it. What else could he think about? Lying in the virtually empty room with its blank walls for days at a time, knowing full well how much trouble he’d be if he wandered out of the room, let alone their apartment. Now he would spend yet another winter break without so much as another living creature to talk to. She hates me . . . she’s always hated me. What had he done wrong? Every day he did exactly what she asked him to do, and yet he never so much as received a pat on the shoulder for it. Nothing but a harsh word and—he shuddered—the box. Rory gripped his chest tightly. It did little good to fill the need, but it felt nice all the same. Closing his eyes, he imagined what it would be like to be hugged. To be so close to another pony that you could feel their heartbeat, smell their breath, and share in their warmth. Maybe he’d experience that someday, but for now all he had wanted was a pat on the head, a kind word, and a little attention. But, even that had proved too much to ask for . . . Rory jolted awake, looking around at the darkened room and groaning. Glancing at the clock, he noted the time. Two twenty-five and he had to be up in less than three hours. Not again. His stomach churned and ached, but he ignored the familiar inconvenience. You’re not hungry, Rory. Go to sleep . . . Lying in the dark, he allowed Jazelle’s words to play over and over again. Acting like Father . . . not giving ‘kindness’ a try. How could she even talk like that? He had tried being kind, tried plenty of times. It always ended in disaster. Jazelle lived under the assumption that, somewhere deep inside everypony, lay the potential to be good. Idiotic sentimentalism. Some ponies never had that potential to start with. If he had been born with it, in time he would have learned to be a good child. Learned how to play, how to be helpful and genuinely polite and how to please them. Instead, he had only grown worse until even those fools accepted the fact that he never would be ‘good,’ at least not in their eyes. A stabbing pain in his stomach preceded yet another wave of nausea. Rory realized that he had not eaten anything yesterday and next to nothing the day before. Reluctantly, he got to his hooves, wincing as his leg made contact with the hardwood. In the dim light filtering behind his blackout curtains, Rory opened up the cupboard. He withdrew a bowl, filling it with beet pulp and soaking its contents in water. Then, after adding three large scoops of weight supplement—the ‘extra strength’ stuff that never really worked—he took a seat. It took a few minutes before he had the motivation to eat some of it. Rory grimaced as he took a few mouthfuls, keenly reminded of how much he looked like a dog. ‘Disgusting earth pony.’ The words echoed around the apartment as if magically magnified. Every part of him wanted to stop there, but his stomach hurt. He needed to eat. Once again, he tried, managing a few gulps before grimacing and pulling away. The apartment faded into the background, replaced by his mother standing in the hallway. ‘Such a glutton, always obsessing over food.’ I’m not obsessing. Though, his affirmation did little to quell the disgust he felt at the thought of eating. Glancing down at the half-finished bowl, he stood, limping back to the room. I’m not a glutton . . . I’m not. He curled back up under the covers, exhaustion drowning out the now dulled pain. A familiar, quivering sensation started in his legs and worked upwards. That overwhelming need for pressure, any pressure, caused him to grip himself until it hurt. It'll be okay, it'll be okay. You don't need them and they'll never need you . . .