//------------------------------// // Chapter 4 // Story: Legion // by Mochas Dungeon //------------------------------// He opened his eyes and felt cold.  Icy cold shivers ran through his body as he sighed a chilled breath.           “Help,” he whispered as he laid on the floor of his bedroom, blood ran under his body.  He’d finally cut himself too deeply, somehow making it to his room.         “Daddy,” he panted as he looked in front of himself, a photo had been torn, removing the mares of his life and leaving only his father and himself.                  Sitting side by side, grinning happily by a statue of Luna in Canterlot.  One of the best memories of his young life was that vacation.  It must have been well after midnight when he came to, it was dark and cold.         The window curtains were drawn but no stars were out.  Evening showers weren’t planned, why was the sky dark?           He moved his forelegs with a lot of effort and began to pull himself to the picture, grasping it in his hoof he brought it to his cheek.         “I love you daddy,” he said in a deep whisper, “but, I don’t wanna go the same way.”         He placed the photo back and turned to face the doorway.  He whimpered at the trail of blood that led into his room.           If his father were there, he’d be so sad at the mess he’d have to clean up.           Even when Ever Last had walked into the bathroom to find his father’s lifeless body, drained of nearly all its blood, with cuts so deep into his flesh, young Ever could see bones and the layers of skin and fat…         The room was sparkling, as though he’d ended his life and cleaned up afterwards.  A stallion dying of suicide in the bathtub was rare, but there wasn’t a drop of the red life fluid anywhere but on the bottom of the tub.         He remembered that the town had to cease drinking tap water for a week, as he dragged himself toward the door.         The risk of having meat, blood, an unwanted bodily fluid in the drinking water was worse than taboo.         His mother sunk into depression at the loss of her husband and sold the tavern.         His mom couldn’t live with the stigma and moved away, followed by his mother passing shortly after.         He was left alone in the house, he’d had since he was foaled.  Every room held memories, the ones that made his heart ache from sorrow and pain filled rage were the rooms where he’d play with his father, later to be violated by what his mother would do to him.         The hours he’d play with his friends were overshadowed by the minutes that would turn to an hour of his mother’s unwelcome affections.           Every room was tainted and poisoned, with memories.           He looked through the doorway and pulled himself, aided by the desire to make his father proud of his strength through the threshold and into the living room.         His memories rushed back to the house he lived in.         ...         The bathroom he never used, ever, since that hurtful night; having to choose to use a garbage pail, sink, go outside in the bushes, or travel to a neighbor’s to release his daily waste.         He had to sell the house when he was twenty four.  He was alone and tried to use the bathroom, finally.  Nine years after his father died.  Six years after his mother had left him.         Two years since he began using drugs.  One year before he began to drink, realizing it took the memories away.  On that anniversary, the day he walked in the room to find his father dead in the bathtub, he drank enough to forget his name.         He used enough drugs to stop the heart of a horse.         He even hired the town prostitute and cried into her neck for longer than he kept track.  He vaguely recalled her saying cries are free…  Then he was looking at the tub, still centered in the room as a centerpiece of crafted porcelain mastery.           The hot baths that would be drawn, how he’d play in the water until it was icy cold; he recalled refusing to leave, even when his body shivered.         The bathroom was organized and the floor polished.  Dust lingered in the air and a thin veil coated everything in the room.  If his father was there, not a speck of dust would be spared his wrath.           A towel, yellow he preferred, always nearby.  A spray bottle of cleaner within reach.  A determined love of his house and family.  A beacon of stallion pride for the community…  And he died, bled to death in his bathtub.         Ever had reached the kitchen when he took notice of the knife on the floor, the blood began there and showed him having walked, stumbling, away from it.  A slice of flesh was on the knife, sending chills from his middle back to his tail as he turned and went to the door.         Without hesitation he placed his the tip of his right hoof into a looped string on the floor, dragged it back, then laid down, sleep claiming him.         “Maybe, I’ll see you, tonight, daddy,” he whispered as he fell asleep.