//------------------------------// // Un Lit Défait // Story: Filetages Fatidique et Fleurs de Soie // by Indulgence //------------------------------// Beds somehow manage to become more comfortable the longer they are inhabited. When we roll into them in the dead of night they are normally only a negligible reprieve from the tired world. Although not uncomfortable we may still spend hours wrapping and unwrapping blankets, flipping pillows to their cooler face and generally rolling from side to side, all in attempts to find the best sleeping position without any being quite adequate. By morning however every inch of a bed is converted to being the very pinnacle of luxurious cosiness, so much so that we are loath to leave its quilted recesses. At dusk it is furniture of purpose, whilst at dawn it is the furnisher of indulgent pleasure, making it the bane of punctuality and arch nemesis to the best laid schedule. Today was one of the great many mornings in which Fleur De Lis found herself wishing that her past-self had remembered any of this the preceding evening. Not that she actually had anywhere to be however, but rather the prospect of a lie-in was extremely attractive and at the same time made entirely impossible by the crushing hangover battering her being. Right now she would have gladly cut off her own head, in hopes the severance would dull the piercing spike working through her brow, had the rest of her not been throbbing with a persistent immobilising ache. The one small mercy was the fact that the curtains were set closed, shielding her from the oppressive rays of the rising sun and suitably mellowing the room’s light from burning her purple irises. In spite of her bodily resistance, movement was made necessary by the hot unpleasantness of her surrounding sheets, its waves pushing her downward into the mattress. Throwing off the quilt and rising, she was given the briefest of moments to feel relief at finding no unknown pony as her bedfellow, before nausea leapt from her stomach to strike her throat, forcing her to flee in the direction of the apartment’s ensuite. The toilet loomed up in her face as she dry-wretched ineffectually into it, adding nothing to the noxious mix already forming a stagnant pool in the receptacle. Confronted with the results of last night’s hazy debauch, her spluttering continued, sickness furthered by the aggressive scent filling her nostrils. Never again? ‘Buck off’ she muttered in between coughs, whilst flushing away the murky contents. Her mind’s words were bad enough for being so cliché, but made worse for being a quotation. Fleur recoiled to the sink, releasing cleansing waters into the bowl. Two faces stared back at her: one a confusion in the clear ripples, the other a shining image in the medicine cabinet’s mirror. The three ponies gazed into the depths of each other’s purple-rimmed eyes, the remnant sludge of mascara having formed bruises around their sockets. She sighed and her abused twins sighed back in unison as they collectively set to work washing away the caked stains set in their white fur. Their first selected tissue was quickly thick with the stuff, dark streaks cutting across the soft paper, and they levitated it to the room’s bin, hoof stepping roughly down on the container’s opening pedal. The silver lid crashed down, forcing her ears shut against her head as she tried to hold off the sudden noise slamming into her tender senses. Buck! Ignoring her mind’s inner screaming, she and her reflections returned to their activity, casting away a flurry of wipes to form a corpse pile in the bin’s base. A fresh pair of visages now looked into her: pale, ordinary, plain. One drained out, whilst the other she turned away, searching the cabinet’s guts beyond for painkillers. A cloud of disorganised pills hovered out before her muzzle, first being marshalled together by colour and then reformed in groups of similar shapes to no avail. Her attempts at arrangement in vain she chose a small selection and downed them with a dry forced swallow, foregoing the available glass lying stained with a pukey lip print as evidence of use last night, whilst willing the medication to make an immediate impact. Her aching joints nagged her to return to bed, but the covers were now a long trek away so instead she offered up a shower as appeasement, turning on the dial and filling the space with the sound of falling water. Soon enough an enveloping humidity followed accompanied by fresh nausea, but nonetheless fighting through this she rose and stepped into the pure raindrops, letting them sooth each spot they touched. Her mane fell flat around her shoulders, its pink stripes made heavy and straight by the current, whilst each knot formed in her body slowly slipped away under the droplets’ caresses. --- Clouds of steam followed in Fleur’s wake, vapour trails rising from the snow of her damp fur in silver tendrils, as the bathroom’s door slid shut behind her. Pains now chemically held at bay, although her body remained somewhat ‘off’, she glided through the openness of the apartment, calmed mind set on a single goal. Caffeine! The garment strewn tip of the bedroom morphed into the living space, itself dominated by a low table groaning under the weight of half or truly empty bottles and a trio of sofas also draped in pieces of clothing, and then a kitchenette. All was minimalist in design and had been formed of clean ordered lines, now broken by a scattered storm of discarded detritus. Caffeine! To the disappointment of the increasingly desperate voice she first made for the fridge in search of something more hydrating or at the very least capable of wetting her arid palate. Wine bottles, a partially decimated six-pack and leftovers, exactly not what her still unstable stomach wanted to be greeted by, bid her a sickening welcome to the icy locker. Somehow her magic was able to work its way through the crowd, dragging forth a sole juice carton lost, alone and buried in the morgue of depleted consumables. ‘Zesty orange and cucumber’ proclaimed the label, as she went in search of a glass, ‘cut with undertones of lemongrass’. The vile drink had obviously been procured as a mixer, but right now water seemed a far worse prospect so it would have to do. All that was clean and available to put it in was a champagne flute. ‘Fleur De Lis what on Equis do you think you’re doing! That is a most inappropriate piece of glassware for such a beverage. Look at yourself, barely a week in Manehattan and you’ve already become a degenerate just as I and your father predicted.’ She sniggered at the scolding voice as she defiantly let the greenish-orangey liquid pour. ‘Cheers to you mother’ she giggled taking a sip. Not bad, could do with some gin to give it some body though. ‘Shut up’ she sighed at her mind, forcing away the vomit-inducing images of alcohol. Desiring thoughts for fresh air beckoned her through the sliding panes which made up one of the apartment’s four walls, drawing her onto the long empty balcony beyond. Her forehooves crossed on the top of the outer railing and her head rested upon them, whilst she continued to drain the floating drink half-heartedly. Beautiful: the glittering skyline of imposing buildings, the glimmer of sunlight as it danced amongst them, even the criss-cross pattern of streets far below, it was all quite simply beautiful. Or simply beautiful because it’s not Canterlot? ‘True Canterlot’s ugly, but this is such a brighter city. It has a spirit and a freshness so unlike that imperial cadaver. Maybe the grass here can really be greener.’ Well you’ve done such a great job making a fresh start after all haven’t you! ‘I’ve got my own place and I’ve met people...’ You’ve blown well over half your money and can’t remember half the people you’ve “met”. How successful will you be if you have to go crawling back? ‘Money’s not a problem, I can just do some modelling and…’ Once again great job starting anew by doing exactly what you were doing back home! Fleur let out the heaviest of the morning’s sighs. The cool air had managed to dry her hair enough for it to be pulled up by the breeze and it now blew around her head like the currents of a river. ‘Why do I always have to be right?’ she muttered, polishing off the last of the juice. Now more importantly: caffeine! Back into the kitchen, except this time she made straight for the coffee-maker, meanwhile the offensively “inappropriate” glass landed in the sink amongst its distant kin. The machine was empty. A jar of instant granules came open, lid drifting in a pink aura, also empty. Every cupboard flew open, all devoid of what her magic sought. ‘For buck’s sake!’ Caffeine! She huffed in annoyance on the cusp of screaming, making for the door, but on the way she was waylaid by the hall’s mirror. An exceptionally plain looking white unicorn studied her from the shined surface. ‘Maybe I should just fix my hair and makeup then…’ Caffeine! ‘Okay, we’re channelling hot mess then’ she conceded, ruffling her already untidy mane. ‘Straight down, find the nearest coffee shop and then get back before anypony sees you. Just in and out without any problems. Just like all the ponies you’ve “met” here. ‘Shut up!’ Fleur exclaimed aloud, slamming the door behind her, with the sharp noise instantly making her regret having done so.