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Newborn1,733 words
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I Despise You1,145 words
I Never Deserved Him3,449 words
Sweet Release2,969 words

I Never Deserved Him

On some level, I think Mama always knew that my mind was in the wrong place. In my most lucid moments, I see her actions in raising me as worthy of condemnation, my certainty that her heavyhooved and sheltering lifestyle stunted my ability to socialize and empathize, causing a mare with acute disorders to become the monster I saw myself as in those clearest of moments. I feel certain that, had she put more care and attention into my upbringing, my problems would have been fixed and I wouldn’t be like this.

Then, the sky becomes cloudy again, and what small amount of comprehension I managed to hold onto for those few precious moments slips back out of my understanding. I forget what Mama did. I thank her for hiding me from the world. I, a mare raised to know that there is something wrong with me, can see with perfect clarity what she was thinking.

She was never the monster; it’s always been me. She just knew to cage a monster.

I gaze balefully down at Jack Apple, pondering my mother’s lessons for me. Is she me? Am I Mama? Was Mama me? Maybe my upbringing is cyclical, and it is my chance to raise Jack Apple differently.

My own mind scoffs at the outlandish prospect. Mama raised me. She obviously knew something about foal-raising that I don’t. Perhaps if I emulate her example....

I plod along the street, several doors down to Lumpkin’s. She told me what her talent is once, but I didn’t think it necessary to listen and it hasn’t come up in conversation since. All I know is that she’s always home and she always has time to talk to me.

Two swift knocks upon the door causes Lumpkin to open it. She lets me in and I sit down. “Hey there, new mom. How are you doing?”

“I can’t raise a foal.”

My bluntness causes her to pause briefly while she’s closing the door. “Why do you say that?”

“I hate her.”

Lumpkin comes and sits next to me, her face contorted in a most unappealing way. “Why?”

I sigh in exasperation. She has to ask the most pointless questions. “Because she is wrong.”

“... Wrong?”

“She wasn’t created right. I look at her and I get confused. I just want to take her back to the hospital.”

Lumpkin’s mind is working overtime, trying to grasp the information that I’m feeding her. After several long moments, she seems to decide on a course of action. “I can help you if you want.”

“I don’t want help.” I stand up angrily, my patience wearing thin, and turn toward the door. Seeing Lumpkin was a mistake. She never makes anything better. “I hate her and I don’t want her anymore.”

Lumpkin puts her hoof on my shoulder. “Fuji, I know this is confusing, but Jack Apple needs a mom. You’re the only mom she’s got. Do it for her sake, not yours.”

I shrug Lumpkin’s hoof off my shoulder. “Fine, whatever. I’ll give it a few more days.”

Lumpkin calls at me through the closing door. “Come talk to me if you need anything!” As if she helped at all.

Jack Apple’s sake.

What is for her sake? Mama’s lessons? Are those what’s best for her? Lumpkin’s care? What about me? Is my motherly instinct not enough?

Maybe it’s none of those things.

It’s possible that I am not the pony Apple Cart believed I am. Maybe he fell in love with a dream, a fake pony telling him fake lies. He gave a foal to the one pony in Equestria that couldn’t do it, but he believed she could. All of the hopes and feelings that he instilled in this fake pony, his dud of a wife, were wasted. She couldn’t do right by his foal, no matter how hard he believed in the dream.

I can’t.

The Moon’s eye glares judgingly at me through a window, my sins laid bare before Her. She knows the monster that I am, just as Mama knew. The first and only real challenge I will ever have is causing me to crumble before I even try.

Every day is a struggle. Every night is a fight.

How many days has it been since I saw Lumpkin?

Is Jack Apple growing? Does she remember me? Does she know I exist? Do I want her to know I exist?

I hate Mama. I hate Apple Cart. They’ve left me. All I have is a foal I don’t love. I hate her.

Do I hate her?

Maybe I hate the thought of her. She represents my loss. She is the symbol of my love with Apple Cart, but the other half of that love is gone. I see everything I love about a dead pony in her. It’s not her fault, but I hate her nonetheless.

Maybe I don’t hate her. I can’t decide.

I do love her, just not like I should. Lumpkin hasn’t left me. I could never hate Apple Cart. I could never hate Mama.

I desperately want Jack Apple to know I exist. Maybe she already does. She only knows me as a provider. She is slowly growing, but imperceptibly slow.

It has been four days since I saw Lumpkin.

How many days has it been since I saw Lumpkin?

Another wail pierces through the night. Jack Apple still refuses to sleep like a normal pony. She’s stubborn and loud and infuriating. Sometimes she wants something. Sometimes she just wants to cry. I wish I could ignore her, but something inside of me won’t allow it.

I hate motherhood. I hate that this foal relies solely on me. I probably haven’t been feeding her enough; I probably haven’t been giving her enough blankets; I probably haven’t been showing her as much affection as I should be. No matter how much food I give her, no matter how many blankets I wrap her in, no matter how much affection I show her—she simply craves the things she doesn’t deserve.

In a twisted way, this could be considered penance for all of the undeserved love that Apple Cart showered me in. The twist, of course, being that I don’t love this foal, but perhaps being miserable now is my just desserts. I never deserved Apple Cart, but he still cared for me with no questions asked.

Am I crazy for hating my own foal? The sentiment propagated through all of ponykind is that foalbearing is its own reward. The sheer joy of raising a creature born of love far outweighs the inconvenience that is impressed upon the couple. Either ponykind is in a shared delusion or I am the deluded one.

We tend to favor our own viewpoints, and I am no different. Even if my feelings are a lie, they still feel very authentic. I don’t love my foal, despite how I was assured I would feel. There’s no helping who I am.

Night. Why does every noteworthy thought in my brain occur at night?

The darkness lets me ruminate more easily on things, I think. My impaired eyesight allows me to delve into the depths of my madness clearly. Daytime is simply a blur of anger and pessimism and frustration; at night, there is only the silence of my own dark brooding.

Jack Apple hasn’t cried for... several hours now. This is the longest that she has been quiet for. I suppose I should be concerned. I can’t drag my apathetic hooves to the floor, though. The blessed peace which has fallen over the house is too good to ruin. If she’s not crying, then the stupid motherly feeling doesn’t overtake me. I need to take what rest I can get instead of fret over my foal’s well-being constantly.

In the distance, I hear a giant clock chime. Three chimes means seven hours since I last saw Jack Apple and assured myself that she was okay.

Even when she’s silent, Jack Apple is a presence looming over my life. When she’s not crying, I’m worried about when she will cry. When she is crying, I’m worried that she’ll stop so I’ll stop caring. The part where she’s crying is obviously the worst—but the moments in between, those opportunities that I have to not simply be a baby-caring machine... I take no pleasure from them. They’re simply those moments of dread between the moments in which she needs me.

I have been dozing across the room on my bed, but right now, even when it is too dark to see her, I cannot help but stare at the dark shape that has drained me of my free will and my happiness. She is the bane of my existence, the source of all my misery and bitterness. If she had never happened, maybe Apple Cart would still be here.

On some level, I know that I am lying to myself, but I cannot shake my conviction. The simple sight of Jack Apple is enough to anger me, and the only thing that has kept me from simply ignoring her at this point is the way she makes me feel when she whines. I am wired to care, whether I wish it so or not.

I don’t want her. I never wanted her. My life is no longer my own, and she is the one to blame.

What do I do?

I have an opportunity. This is a small window of time in which I am myself again. She isn’t crying. I can do something.

What can I do?

Apple Cart gave everything to have a foal with me, but he died. Without Apple Cart, I am unworthy of raising the foal.

Should I give her away?

I have never been a pony to force my problems onto other ponies. That would require a conversation that I wouldn’t ever want to have. That doesn’t really seem like an option.

I feel cornered, trapped into this circumstance, and am growing to despise it more every day. Who says that I shouldn’t be the one to decide where I go with my life? What prank is fate playing on me by dumping this foal into my lap? I was already struggling with Apple Cart gone, and Jack Apple’s arrival has only compounded this. I am drowning in my responsibility to this foal, and I want to be able to breathe again.

I have to remove her. I need to.

What should I do? Lumpkin said she would help. She never helps, though. She only makes things worse. I could give her back to the hospital, or to Foal Protective Services. All of them feel like me avoiding the issue.

I get out of bed and walk to the crib. I look at Jack Apple's features.

She looks... peaceful, I guess. She has no idea how torn I feel about her. She is unaware of anything. Almost as if she’s...

Not alive.

I quickly move my hoof toward her face and feel a slight breath on my hoof. She’s not dead.

What if she was?

If Jack Apple wasn’t here, I wouldn’t need to ask Lumpkin for help. I wouldn’t be causing problems for the hospital or Foal Protective Services. I could reclaim my life and be the mare I want to be.

The more I think about it, the more appealing this idea is. No more time spent dreading the next time she’ll cry. No more fumbling blindly to find out what she wants. No more asking myself why she deserves to be here, alive and happy, when Apple Cart is dead and I’m so miserable.

She is the manifestation of everything negative in my life. There is only one reasonable conclusion for me.

I reach down as gently as I can, my hooves threatening to shake themselves into uncertainty. I grasp the pillow from under her head and carefully slide it out. Her tiny neck, unable to support her large brain, lets her head go limp and thud weakly against the mattress of her crib. She doesn’t deign to notice, continuing to sleep fitfully.

Then, I press the pillow against her face.

I feel a thrill of electricity go through my body, the spark of liberation from the awful monotony that this foal brought down upon me. I am finally ending it. The struggle. The hatred. She’ll be gone. Just a few more moments.

Under the pillow, I feel her mouth open as she tries to take a breath. I plant the pillow more firmly, feeling the beginnings of a struggle, her tiny feeble hooves groping at the fabric that is obstructing her airway. She’s helpless without me. She can’t even prevent this. It’s utterly pathetic.

A tiny whine escapes from out of the pillow. I feel it more than I hear it, her voice echoing through the object. Her voice is just powerful enough to get me to feel it.

I know... in my head, somewhere, that this is wrong. I have to see it through, though. Apple Cart wouldn’t want to see me finish this halfway.

Apple Cart.

I lay awake in my bed one night, staring at the dark ceiling. Sleep has eluded me; sometimes, this just happens.

Sometimes, I feel lonely, and I ask myself why. Mama loved me. I have a loving husband. My life couldn’t be better. Yet, it feels pathetic and unfulfilling. As if there were so many opportunities, and by being here, in this moment, I missed all of them.

I want life to have a reset button. I look back on all of the decisions I made, and I ask myself, What if things were different? If I hadn’t asked Mama a certain question, or if I had told Apple Cart what I was thinking at a certain moment in time, or if I had decided to cross the street at the wrong time and get hit by a cart on a specific day.

I think that my life is utterly important, here in bed with Apple Cart. What if I wasn’t here, though? Would he have found a different mare to make him happy? Would she be better than me? There are so many seemingly inconsequential things that could have changed only slightly that would have resulted in the two of us never meeting. It’s sheer luck that brought us together.

Apple Cart stirs, his hoof draping over me in a sleepy embrace. He mumbles, “Still awake?”

I ignore the pleasantry. “If I wasn’t here, would you have married another mare?”

Apple Cart is silent for several moments while his brain catches up with him. “That’s a very odd question to have in the middle of the night.”

“I just want to know. Would you have been happy without me?”

“Probably not. I can’t imagine a life without you.”

“So if I wasn’t here, you’d still be alone?”

“If I wasn’t here, do you think you’d have found some other stallion?”

I ponder on this for several moments. I don’t consider myself very desirable, whereas I see Apple Cart as one of the more highly sought-after stallions. He could have his pick of a mare, and he chose... me, of all ponies. I guess I never exactly understood his reasons behind it, and every time I asked him why me, he’d say something vague or noncommittal. I just always assumed because he knew I would be desperate and certain that I was with a pony too good for me. “Probably not.”

“Then why do you think it’d be surprising for me to be alone without you?”

“Every mare in Equestria would be lonely forever if it meant a night with you.”

“Actually, only one mare would do that.” He looks at me in amusement.

I’m silent for a few moments while I process this information. “So... you would just be miserable and alone if I’d never come along.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he replies flippantly.

“What?” The way I say the word implies that he said something irritating. Maybe he’s not taking this conversation seriously enough.

He sighs, his still-impaired brain trying to formulate the words. “I don’t care what might have happened without you. What matters is that you were there, and I was there, and our moment happened. And I’ve never looked back. You are my one and only, Fuji. Asking what could have happened if things had been a little bit different doesn’t change the fact that you are here, now, in this bed with me, and that both of us are happy that things happened the way they did. I am satisfied with the outcome of my life, and pointlessly asking myself if things could have happened differently doesn’t help anypony.”

“So, if I had never been born, you’d be single?”

He sighs again—endearingly, as if he appreciates the question. “Yes, I am absolutely certain that if you hadn’t been there, I’d never have found you, thus I would never have found the one and only pony to experience love at first sight with.”

“So, even if Mama—” He cuts me off with a kiss, my thought dashed away.

“Whatever it is, probably yes. If it means you’ll finally get some sleep, then yes to all of it. I am glad you’re alive, here, in this moment. Love found a way to have you here, and I won’t question it. Now just be happy that you’re here, alive, and that things hadn’t been different.”

My grip on the pillow eases up slightly. A large, choking breath sounds underneath.

I’m... killing me?

Mama didn’t kill me. If Mama had killed me, Apple Cart would have been alone. He’d have died all alone too. I wouldn’t have had Jack Apple. I wouldn’t have been led to this choice. I wouldn’t have had to end the cycle—

What if she is somepony’s true love? What if this was me under the pillow? Would I kill me?

I am trying to end a pony’s life. I am trying to end my life.

Apple Cart is dead. I lost the only pony that I will ever love. I lost the only pony that ever loved me. I want to end everything. I want to end her, I want to end me. I want to end our life. There is no me without him. Without Apple Cart, I am just a very disturbed pony.

I want to end a pony’s life to be nothing again.

She is something, though. She is somepony’s true love. If I kill her, then her true love will die alone, just as she’s dying alone. Just as I will die alone.

Another choking breath is released into the pillow. I am no longer certain that this is what I want. She’s a bother, but... she’s me. I don’t want to be alone, and if I kill her, I doom another pony to be alone. Apple Cart... wouldn’t want that.

Abruptly, I remove the pillow from Jack Apple’s face. She takes in a very deep breath, then begins wailing.

I have lain here, in this pose, for... hours. Jack Apple cried, then her breathing normalized, she stopped panicking, and she went back to sleep. The pillow lays on the ground, its implementation as a murder weapon forgotten as it fell from my shocked hooves.

I almost killed my own foal.

This thought has been mulling over and over again in my head, causing a parade of quandaries to enter and exit my realm of thought. Was I just frustrated and angry and tired? Did I genuinely despise her that greatly? Did I truly hate my life so much that I would murder her for it?

The thought repeats itself: I almost killed my own foal.

I stare into her tiny features, only partially visible in the first creeping rays of the rising sun. She doesn’t realize what happened. She doesn’t care what happened. She is innocent, more innocent than I will ever be again. Come morning, she’ll wake up, she’ll cry, and she’ll keep crying until she’s fed, or her diaper is changed, or her blanket is wrapped around her. She doesn’t care that I just tried to murder her. She doesn’t care that I’m not okay. She. Doesn’t. Care.

Once again: I almost killed my own foal.

More rays of sunlight creep in, causing her face to screw up slightly, then her eyes open. She looks at me, utterly uncomprehending of the monster that looks back at her. In her soft eyes, I see a tiny reflection of myself.

I do care what I did. I know that I’m not okay.

I know what needs to be done.

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