• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions



Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Breaking Things

Author's Note:

I'm two whole blocks from home when I hear it...

...and my entire world freezes over.

I stop in my tracks, hooves digging into the dirt road beneath the afternoon sun.

I hold my breath, cutting off the magenta streams so that I can concentrate... focus. I hope against hope that I'm imagining the colors rippling across my eyes.

I'm wrong. For there they are. They rip right through me... setting me on fire.

Such blue... vibrant, sparkling bands of blue.

I tilt my head to the left... and then to the right.

I can no longer doubt it. The sound is—in fact—coming from our apartment. Even from this distance, I squint and see a sapphire blue aura emanating from beyond the window panes.

Gnashing my teeth, I bolt forward. The bag of store-bought cat treats falls from my flank and spills out onto the middle of the road. I completely ignore it.

Galloping, I rush to the front door. It's slightly ajar.

I burst it open, and my ears implode from the full weight of a melancholic ballad.

I jerk to the right—staring straight at my half of the foyer.

Three little fillies are seated around my record player. One of them perks up at the sight of me.

"Oh! Hey! She's here!" Sweetie Belle's voice chirps just a few blue octaves below the voice coming out of the speakers. "Oh... uh... you look surprised to see me. Eheh... Miss Melody gave me some spare house keys so I could continue cleaning for a few extra bits. But then I found this record while I was dusting things off today and—"

"Will ya just listen to that?!" Apple Bloom beams. "You sound just like an angel, Miss Scratch!"

"Heehee! Yeah!" Scootaloo smirks. "Or should we say 'Cyan Sings?'"

I'm blinded by a magenta cloud of my own hyperventilating. My shaded gaze sweeps the room, and I see the glittery vinyl cover leaning against the record player between them.

"I-I hope you don't mind." Sweetie Belle grins from beyond the kaleidoscopic implosion. "As soon as I heard your super gorgeous singing voice, I just had to let the others hear!"

"It's super awesome!" Scootaloo exclaims. "I bet you'd give Fluttershy a run for the money!"

"How come yer always hidin' behind a turntable when you can let loose like this?"

"Heehee... Apple Bloom." Sweetie Belle waves a hoof. "Don't you know anything? Miss Scratch is—"

I cross the distance between myself and the damnable sound. With a wave of my hoof, I knock the needle off, spilling a discordant crimson screech through the speakers.

Scootaloo winces. "Owwww..." She rubs her ears.

"Huh?" Sweetie Belle blinks, standing up straight. "Miss Scratch! What gives?"

"It was just gettin' to the sweet part again!" Apple Bloom stammers.

I lean in a slump, hunched over against the record player, seething. My teeth clench, visible, glistening like dagger tips.

"Uhhhh..." Sweetie Belle leans her head to the side. "Miss Scratch? Is something wrong?"

"Wuh oh..." Apple Bloom gulps. "I think you dun goof'd, Sweetie."

"But... but her voice was so awesome! Why wouldn't she want to share it with—?"

I face her. My glare must be a venomous one; the filly gasps so hard that she stumbles backwards three steps.

"Miss Scratch...?"

I point a hoof viciously at the door.

"Uhm..." Scootaloo starts shuffling away. "I-I think she wants us to leave."

"Right..." Apple Bloom sidesteps. "Sweetie Belle?"

"I... I didn't mean anything by it, honest!" Sweetie Belle squeaks, fidgeting in place. "I-I'm sorry. I should have asked before invitin' the other Crusaders over, but... but..." She nods at the record player. "That's one of the best albums I've ever heard! Why, I bet if Rarity and her friends heard it, they'd be moved to—"

I lean forward, pointing at the door with greater... angrier emphasis.

"But... but Miss Scratch, could you at least explain why—?"

The world explodes in a magenta shroud. Somepony is hissing. At the end of a massive spin, I feel the crimson gunshot of a record being smashed against the wall.

Sweetie Belle shrieks. Three sets of hooves scamper towards the door... but one of them lingers.

When my vision returns, I see cracked bits of black vinyl lingering on the carpet. I glance towards the side.

Sweetie Belle's silhouette lingers in the sunlight. The edges of her eyelids glisten, and yet she's frowning. "You know..." She sniffles, muzzle quivering. "...some of us are lucky to have a talent worth being proud of."

I simply glare at her.

"You are so... so amazing... and Cyan Sings is too." She fights back a sob. "If you can't believe in yourself... then did you ever actually believe in me?"

I have no response to that. I don't need to.

Squeaking under her breath, Sweetie Belle turns and outruns her tears. She's gone in a blink, leaving me and the crackling white noise of the emptily spinning record player.

It's not enough punctuation for this train wreck to be over.

Another magenta outburst, and I'm unleashing the rest of the deluge. I shove my record player over, and it lands in a red cacophony. I march over the debris and grab the album sleeve. An elegant unicorn in a glittery blue dress smiles at me—but not for long.

I rip straight through the spotlight, shredding the sleeve to bits. And yet—several sweaty breaths into the massacre—the many lacerated bits of garbage still shimmer with more blue than my rancid, useless voice ever will.

It's enough to deflate a living pony entirely... and it does just that right now.

I collapse with my back to my turntable. It anchors me, and that's what hurts the most. Pretty soon, I'm weeping—something I'm not allowed to do either, for the thunderous magenta salvos of each outburst pull me harder and heavier to the ground, until I'm awash in a sea of it... adrift above the void lingering below, soundless and colorless, a shade even more haunting than turquoise.

And it's a place that's invited me before... only now, the violet harnesses are starting to fray. It's my lasting thought as I dwindle upon the edge of unconsciousness, hoping for a reprieve... but receiving one.

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