//------------------------------// // Un Lit Utilisé // Story: Filetages Fatidique et Fleurs de Soie // by Indulgence //------------------------------// A low incessant hum continued to fill the confined space of the workroom, as it had been doing for the past innumerable hours, emanating from a by now severely overworked sewing machine. The relentless brightness of the space’s single ceiling bulb bore down on everything within the cupboard-like windowless room, illuminating shelves of closely stacked fabric, well-filled clothing racks and a pair of covered mannequins. Forced part way open doors and draws, all packed to bursting, pushed inward on all sides, making the already full cave even more cramped. At the centre of this madness sat the hunched shape of a light brown earth mare, set before a table on which lay an ever-whirring machine, its reciprocating needle noisily working through yard after yard of patterned cloth. The sound was allowed to cease, as Coco Pommel rose from her work in a momentary reprieve, stretching out her spine and neck with an audible crack. Almost immediately she slumped back down in her seat, forehooves going to her burdened eyes, whose soreness told her they were probably stained a bloodshot shade of pink as opposed to their normal azure tone. Her head held heavy in her hooves, another sleepless night hanging leaden about her brow. She sighed deeply in the closed darkness, rewarded only with the staleness of dead air twinned with the fusty scent of a clothier’s shop. Through extreme effort she was able to raise herself once more, this time fully to her hooves, resisting the urge to slump a little deeper into full unconsciousness, again hearing the sound of jarred cracking from her back. Pushing her aching body onward, ducking beneath overhanging cliffs of overflowing thread boxes, she made her way towards the door, the space feeling like it were wrapped too tightly about her. She needed to get out. Through the portal was a mellowed world, softly lit by the first rays of the morning sun, forming a glow around each window’s drawn curtains. The apartment was simply functional: a small cluster of rooms wedged on the corner of the building’s third floor, chosen principally for the sake of cost and little else. The premium nature of space was made markedly obvious by the futon, lying neatly made up as a bed and entirely uninhabited, dominating the centre of the bedroom/sitting room in which she now stood. This marked the apartment’s nexus, encompassed by doors to the bathroom, the kitchen, the outer corridor and of course the workroom (converted walk-in closet) from whence she came. Coco sighed again, this time inhaling greedily deep the fresher air, simultaneously appreciating the warm sunlight and facing down the fact that she had in fact once again worked through an entire night. Well at least you’re back on the right track. She shook her head releasing the remnant stiffness from her muscles, meanwhile at the same time she trotted around her bed’s un-creased covers in the direction of the bathroom. A new space, equally mildly lit with reflected lights from its shined tiles, enveloped her as she met herself in the sink’s mirror. Her twin, totally unsurprisingly, looked tired, just noticeable bruised bags falling beneath the pinkish hues of her irises. Mechanically the sink was filled, the cold splashing waters acting to blunt the marring marks of fatigue blemishing their faces and returning at least a level of her coat’s lustre. Her unthinking movements continued, comb raking her pale blue mane into its usual neatness, before doing the same with her tail. The repetitious steps of her morning routine drew her back into the bedroom, affixing her almost trademark purple collar and red tie about her neck before another taller mirror. A customary matching hairclip followed, adorned with a flower in full bloom, pinned in amongst the regular striped field of her mane, petals tastefully picking up the shades of her clothing. A new mare now faced her: her normally consciously constructed self which some had called pretty, but internally elicited only a quiet boredom. So begins another day. Around the shined glass in which she now viewed herself, and in fact providing the only decorations to the walls throughout the apartment, were stuck a myriad of sketched designs of outfits, some solidified in chosen colours, but most rather stuck in still fluid greyness. How depressingly appropriate. ‘Not now. I’m in no frame of mind for that kind of thinking.’ Grey is neither here nor there. It is not a statement but mere background, trapped as neither black nor white or else it is a faded or stained version of either of the two. ‘Why when I’m knackered does everything have to become so gloomily absolute?’ Is it not so? ‘Maybe, but even if it is it certainly isn’t helpful to think so. Everypony’s got to start somewhere and it’s not like I’m not doing pretty well.’ Still going through the motions she turned her back on herself; completing the brief circuit of the rooms she could call her own as she strode away to the kitchen. Retaining her direction she made straight for the noticeboard covering most of one wall in the otherwise Spartan space, gaze ignoring her reflection in the various utensils and going to the calendar vying for position against a mess of notes, lists and reminders. All were in the same uniformly frantic scrawl and all insisted upon their own superior importance relative to each other, growing like ferns to create a dense foliage of paper. Coco traced the passage of days extinguished and buried by a crimson pen’s crossed lacerations, using the self-same marker to encircle her target. Today’s the day, which would be a good thing if they were actually finished. ‘Not a problem, I’ll complete the costumes over the course of today and then deliver them to the theatre this evening.’ Very reassuring. They would have been done already of you’d actually got on with it. ‘It’s not my fault that their designs are always so vapid. If I could’ve done my own thing maybe…’ And we come full circle back to the issue of rudderless grey. ‘Enough’ Coco huffed; forcing herself to refocus on the day’s long pre-ordained timetable and flicking through its contents. Finally with a determined nod she concluded: ‘Now, coffee.’