From the Desperate Struggle of a Mother

by Scootareader

I Despise You

The uninteresting parts of life tend to take place in blurs. Not that they aren’t crucial or whatever. They simply aren’t worth remembering, so they are represented by this overarching theme, like “when I was an impressionable filly” or “when I was a younger mare.” I don’t remember much of what made me into the pony I am today.

Perhaps even more inconvenient is that the happiest moments of life tend to happen in blurs as well. Like “when I was with Apple Cart.” I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything, but they happened all too briefly and ended all too soon. Now, as with all these isolated capsules of important times in my life, it has been relegated to the past. Try as I might to unpack every moment I spent with him, they are locked away in this smear of color and smells and sounds and an overwhelming feeling of being content with how things were, even if they weren’t perfect.

This part of my life is not uninteresting, nor is it happy. Instead of remembering Apple Cart, I will remember Jack Apple instead.

The remainder of my hospital visit, thank Celestia, was an uninteresting blur. I got Jack Apple back, the psycha-whatever decided I’m sane, and we got to go.

Now, I am forced into this reality of the moment between the uninteresting blurs and the blurs of happiness. I am forced into this—purgatory of mixed emotions. No, that’s a poor descriptor. More like a stasis. Every moment is experienced, every agonizing piece of time is paused and reflected upon as the misery of a mare who is utterly alone and has had a foal dumped out of her womb and onto her doorstep.

Whatever pony was in charge of making memories at the beginning of all things chose how we remember events very poorly.

These memories of me staring down at my foal in her crib while she inexplicably cries are crystallizing. They are meaningless after the fact, yet they will stick with me far more vividly than even a single day with Apple Cart.

“I wish you’d shut up,” I snap at her, prompting an even louder wail. A wise pony whose name is lost to the smear of memories that is my fillyhood once told me, “Foals can sense your emotions, so always be happy and nice around them and they will be happy and nice too.”

There is no happiness and I can’t be nice. This foal has woken me three times in one night with her nonsensical and frustrating crying. Some maternal instinct boils up inside me every time; I can’t just tune her out and keep sleeping, I have to go and see what’s wrong. She doesn’t want food, she doesn’t want stuffed toys, she doesn’t want to be held, she doesn’t want more blankets. She just cries for 30 minutes then goes back to sleep.

---

I do remember a specific moment with Apple Cart.

I was looking out the window and he said, “You don’t belong out there.”

I looked at him in confusion. “Why? Why can’t I go out with the other ponies?”

“Because you’re not like them,” he replied. “You’re mine, not theirs. And they’re not ready for you.”

“I don’t want to be stuck here. I want to go see other ponies.”

“No you don’t,” he told me. “You want to stay here with me, where you can’t be hurt, where I can take care of you. They don’t deserve to see you. Only I do.”

No, that was Mama. I'm just angry at him.

---

Does Jack Apple deserve me?

If Apple Cart was here, I wouldn’t have to worry. He deserves all the happiness, and if Jack Apple’s existence made him happy, then this would all be a foregone conclusion.

That was him, though, and this is me.

Jack Apple was born out of love. That love no longer exists. She is not Apple Cart and she never will be Apple Cart. Why should she selfishly be allowed my love and affection without ever earning it? She is not Apple Cart and she will never be Apple Cart.

I can’t replace him. Not with a foal. Not even if she’s ours.

What am I supposed to do with Jack Apple, then? She is ours. I can’t abandon her; Apple Cart knows me better than that. He would never forgive me if I did such an awful thing.

I have to take care of Jack Apple. This is the only way out of my predicament.

---

Sleep had finally overtaken me again, for what felt like the dozenth time that night. The cold, logical part of my brain told me that it was at worst the third time Jack Apple had cried. It didn't make me any more pleased to be awoken by her wailing.

My bleary gaze looks out into the cresting morning, Celestia's namesake bent on trying to instill happiness in the ponies it burns over. Then my eyes lock miserably onto the damp, ugly face of my foal. In the light of day, I can see the same freckles that dotted her father's face glistening under her tears.

I can't help but see him, can I? I remember seeing his freckles inching closer and closer to my eyes before I lost sight of them, on account of his mouth being pressed up against mine. At the time, those freckles intimidated me; he was a pony who loved me, the first and the last. To see anything of him in this squealing mess is a disservice to the memory I have of Apple Cart.

Yet, Jack Apple's freckles don't anger me. In fact, their presence is soothing.

Something is ruining what sense I do have. This situation is wrong, but it just feels... right to me, for some reason. Some motherly instinct is overtaking my thoughts, forcing me to see those freckles and see happiness, where the sight of them ought to bring pain. I know better than to think I am actually happy. As if in disdain for what she's doing, I tell her, "You don't fool me. I won't be tricked by you. You're not him."

As if she understood my words, Jack Apple simply begins crying more loudly. Despite my bold statement, my resolve fails me as biology forces my hooves to cradle my foal. I begin rocking her, her crying continuing unabated, as if she knows she's not fooling me, so she's trying even harder to do so. Very suspicious behavior, for a newborn.

I need to go talk to Lumpkin about this.

Comments

[Wroth]

There is just something desperately wrong with her.