The Destruction of the Self

by Cold in Gardez

Spring Heath

I am back in Fillydelphia, and Quatrefoil is alive, and that is impossible.

We’re breakfasting at our favorite cafe, the small Prench one with no interior seating and only a few old iron tables crammed together on the patio. It must have just rained, for the sidewalk around us is dark and wet, even though the sky is clear and the morning sun is peeking over the graceful brownstones that line the city’s streets.

The morning rush has passed, and the streets are full of shoppers and tourists ambling from storefront to storefront, filling the air with their chatter. It must be a school day, for there are no foals running between parents’ legs or stamping in the puddles or shouting at the birds.

“Listen,” Quatrefoil says. His horn glows as he sets his coffee back down on the saucer. “I know I said I wanted to wait, but I’ve been thinking, and—”

* * *

A gentle nudge on the shoulder wakes me from the dream. For a confused moment I cannot remember where I am, or what day it is, or why I’m in bed with a strange-smelling stallion running his muzzle through my mane. Memories blend together in the darkness, and I freeze, staring at the rough wood wall, trying to recover my sense of self.

It comes back with the abruptness of a ship crashing against a reef. The year’s long journey that led me to this place, to a strange bed in a strange house with a strange stallion curled up behind me, our bodies tangled together, barely visible in the dim pre-dawn light peeking in from under the shades.

The stallion makes a quiet, hopeful sound, and finally I am anchored in the present. Buckwheat – that’s his name, Buckwheat who wants to be a farmer – slides his hoof down my flank to my cutie mark, and for a moment I’m tempted. He is a nice stallion, and last night he was a very nice stallion, but right now the pall of the dream is still a weight on my mind, and I want nothing more than to sleep a few more minutes.

He takes the hint. I feel him climb out of bed, and slumber takes me once again.

* * *

Twenty-some minutes later I am still tired, but my bladder has decided it wants me to be awake. I take a final deep draw of Buckwheat’s scent from the sheets, then stumble out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom for my morning ablutions.

The rich aroma of fresh coffee has permeated the house by the time I am done, and I follow my nose down the stairs in search of its source. Buckwheat is seated at the table, sipping from a chipped mug, and as we make eye contact he motions across the table, where the chair is already pulled out. Another mug waits there, chipped and green and worn, but even in the dim light I can see the steam rising from it. I give him the warmest smile I can manage before noon and settle into the seat, holding the mug in both hooves, letting its warmth seep into my bones. The coffee is dark and bitter and delicious, and for several minutes the only sound is the faint tick-tock of a clock somewhere in the house.

I could learn to like this, I think. I could learn to love Buckwheat, and every morning I could sleep in a few extra minutes while he brews the coffee. We could sit here in the quiet pre-dawn silence, slowly marshalling the strength necessary to face the coming day.

What would Buckwheat say, if I confessed to this silly fantasy? Would he laugh it off as a joke? I am halfway to finding the courage to speak when he sets his empty mug down on the table. He stands and places a light kiss on my cheek, then turns toward the door.

“Ten minutes until assembly,” he says. “I’ll see you there. Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I reply. It is our answer to everything in this village – maybe. Maybe I’ll meet you for dinner. Maybe I love you. Maybe I’ll see you again. It’s a safe word, one that cannot bind ponies together. It is the ultimate expression of the purgatory in which we exist.

I finish my coffee, wash out our mugs, and walk out the door after my once and future husband.

* * *

I make it to the school five minutes before the opening bell.

Radish Leaf meets me at the entrance with a stack of binders. His mane is a bit frazzled, and his glasses cling precariously to his muzzle, ready to drop the next time he jerks his head too quickly.

“Morning, Spring Heath!” he greets me warmly, despite the apparent stress of his new job. Being the principal – or, really, any leadership role in the village – is hard and thankless. “What’d you get?”

“Elementary.” There are only four teachers at the village school, and I have been every one of them. It’s a pleasant job, but tiring. I doubt I’ll have the energy to do much more than collapse into bed when I get home. Hopefully my husband will understand.

“Good, good.” The top binder glows, surrounded by his magic, and floats over to me. “There’s today’s lesson plan. Have fun!”

“Maybe,” I say. There are already foals streaming past us toward the classrooms, and I follow the flow.

* * *

The filly I once called my daughter is sitting in the front row when I walk in. I give her the same smile I give everypony else before turning to the front of the room to write my name on the chalkboard.

“Good morning, class,” I say as I write. “I am Spring Heath, and I’ll be your teacher today.”

“Good morning, Miss Spring Heath!” the foals shouts back in a ragged chorus. They are, at least, more enthusiastic about being awake than I am.

“Today we’ll be studying long division.” I pause to read a note left in the binder by yesterday’s teacher. “But first, everypony take out your homework and pass it to the front of the room.”

The day flies by quickly. Something about being around foals energizes me, as though mere proximity with their youth restores the years I have lost. I feel myself smiling without meaning and laughing when they laugh. Soon enough we have moved past long division into world history, and then grammar and science. The final lesson of the day is optics, and we spend the last minutes of class talking about how droplets of water form rainbows.

When the bell rings, I wish I could turn back the hands on the clock for just one more hour. Or sabotage the administrator’s plans for tomorrow, so that I can come back and be the elementary teacher again. It’s not unheard of for ponies to have the same job twice in a row – in fact, statistically, it should happen to somepony or other every day. No pony would bat an eye if I ended up back here.

I am so wrapped up in these thoughts that I almost miss my chance. “Petunia!”

The filly I once called my daughter stops at the door, turning back to me in surprise. She whispers something to her friend and trots over to me. “Yes, Miss Spring Heath?”

I wait as long as I can before answering, just drinking in the sight of her. She’s grown since the last time I was the teacher, and her mane is done up in pigtails today, with a bright red ribbon tied around the base of her tail. It is so loud against her pale pink coat that it seems to shout.

“I…” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask how you were doing.”

“Um, I’m good.” She pauses and looks down at her hooves. “How are you?”

“Good.” It’s the only answer we ever give in the village. How could we be anything else?

“Okay. Um, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I say. She turns to leave, and is almost out the door when I speak again. “You look like your father, you know.”

She blinks at me. “I do?”

I wonder which pony she is imagining. Which stallion tucked her in last night, and made her breakfast this morning. I wonder if I want to know.

“A different father,” I say. “I’m sorry to keep you from your friends. It’s just, I think about you sometimes.”

“Oh.” She glances back at the door and shifts her hooves. “Why?”

I find I don’t have an answer for that, not one I can share. In time, she leaves.

* * *

There’s nopony waiting when I get home. According to the small note taped to the door, I’m single tonight. No husband, no foals.

It’s nice not to have to cook a family dinner, or entertain a strange stallion whose interests may not align with mine. Sometimes I wish I could be single more often, but then I remember the understated, silent pleasure of waking up next to somepony, simmering in their body heat, letting the hours drift by to the sound of their heart.

I wonder, as I turn out the lights and crawl under the covers, which house Petunia is in. I wonder if Buckwheat is tucking her in right now. I wonder who her mother is.

They say that after a few years in the village, we’ll forget our old lives. We’ll leave behind the trinket we brought with us, the single anchor that binds us to the past. We will set it aside, the way a moth leaves behind its cocoon. We will join the gray, indivisible ranks that stretch out into the mists.

It has been seven years since I arrived here on a cruel April night with a squalling foal strapped to my back. It has been four years since I abandoned my trinket, my anchor, my Petunia. I should be past these memories.

But instead I imagine Quatrefoil is with me. His arms wrap around me, and together we slip gently into dreams and the night.

Comments

[Lurks-no-More]

This is a little heartbreaking, yet also beautiful.

[Enduring Man-Child]

6052142 I agree 100%! The scenario is a nightmare (though a voluntary one), but it's so beautifully written. I love the artists and writers in this fan community!!!

[PinkFluffyUnicorn]

I kind of hate Petunia for not remembering her real mother. But then again, who can blame her in this town?

[Reese]

"year’s long"
Was that meant to be "years-long"?

[SgtFrog]

Just...why? Even suicide would be better than this blank grey bleakness. At least she'd be with her beloved Quatrefoil again.

[Oh hi there]

6084018 Think of it like a more complete suicide. Instead of the death of the body they destroy their minds, what makes them who they are. They kill the individual who has to carry the burden of that pain. I heard somewhere that sometimes when people undergo something so impossibly traumatic to them the brain has to detach itself from it and creates a persona for them to assume by taking pieces of it's life and things it imagined. I can't remember the name for the condition but I think it's a delusion. The people in this story did the same thing, but voluntarily and better than the brain could. It's like stabbing yourself in the arm to try and give yourself a lesser pain to focus on, to ignore that your leg has been blown off. All it does is more damage.

[The Countess of Tuscany]

7503047

I heard somewhere that sometimes when people undergo something so impossibly traumatic to them the brain has to detach itself from it and creates a persona for them to assume by taking pieces of it's life and things it imagined. I can't remember the name for the condition but I think it's a delusion. 

I think you're thinking of dissociative fugue state?

[porcelainpony]

8611132
Dissociative Identity Disorder

[FarmFreshAppleTarts]

“Good.” It’s the only answer we ever give in the village. How could we be anything else?

Ah. The town has potential but its more focused on wiping away who you where that those that forget never get to make a new self or eventually make attachments. I would hope the constant switch would make everyone a family but I forgot the point was to make everyone replaceable and forgetabble.

Edit: oh. Ooh. I finally get it. This town makes everyone replaceable and trys to remove attachment(and the self) because Glimmer lost her friend. She never wants to loose again but thats unattainable without making everyone replacable and interchangeable.