• Published 20th Oct 2015
  • 4,209 Views, 103 Comments

Rebirth - Pwn13s



You adjust to life in Equestria as a Human. Love story featuring Lyra and Bon Bon.

  • ...
17
 103
 4,209

Disclosure

You slide the key into the door of your house, swinging the frame open. The radio’s on in the kitchen, blaring out some news about traffic accidents on the highway today. You drop your bag by the side of the kitchen, calling out to your wife. “Honey! I’m home!” You poke your head into the living room, but she’s not there. Nor are the kids.

Your feet thud against the tiled floor, the hard plastic sole slapping gently and echoing in the empty hall. Climbing up the stairs, you call out again, with no response. You knock on the solid wood of the bathroom door, your knuckles rapping against it and the sound once again hovering in the air.

The door to your bedroom creaks open, dust flittering about in the air. You peek into the room and switch on the lights. The bed is empty, the entire room is empty. You pause. They should be home by now.

The only sound left is the radio in the kitchen. The faint hum of the reporter’s voice just reaches your ears, muffled through many walls and doors. “Another accident today on the M25, a very bad collision between a truck and a smaller car. Although the details are incomplete, it is said that the Mother and two kids were killed in the crash. More on that later, and in other news…..”

You freeze. “Mother and two kids.”

Mother.

Two kids.

You take a deep breath, slowing down and forcing yourself not to panic. Reaching slowly for your cell phone, you dial in the number for your wife, punching the call button a bit too hard. The tone rings, but no one picks up yet.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

A quick flash of static, and then her voice comes gently through the speaker.

“Hello, you’ve reached-”

You hang up immediately. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You sit down on the cushioned chair in the study, the wheels grating against the floor. Jabbing at the computer keys, you search for a news site with more information on the crash. Your phone continues to ring your wife, the cheery tone haunting the otherwise silent house. You click on a link.

An image pops up. Blurry camera, bad angle, a normal picture snapped from a phone by someone desperately trying to take it before being ushered away by police. But the car is unmistakeable. Even without the license plates, you know it’s yours.

And your heart sinks.

The phone clicks again. “Hello, you’ve reached-”

You slam the desk with your fist, breaking the keyboard.

“My mobile, but”

Your flesh tears as your knuckles come into contact with the wall.

“Sorry I’m not here”

You spin the chair and smash it against the door.

“If you leave a message”

Tears begin to blot your vision.

“Name and number”

Your scream tears through the house.

“And I’ll try and get back to you.”

You fall to your knees. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.



”Goodbye!” The phone falls silent.


You drag your feet through the mud and grass, lazily trudging along the stretch of land. Your father walks slowly alongside you, his breathing slightly ragged. You catch him staring at you through the corner of your eye, but you avoid his. He sighs.

“It’s a lovely day isn’t it?”

You grunt. “Yeah. Wish I could actually enjoy it.”

An arm falls over your shoulder and pulls you closer to your father. He knows you don’t want to talk, so he doesn’t either. You acknowledge the brief moment of tenderness, but you’re almost too numb to appreciate it. You stare out across the field.

The soil and dirt give way to large rows of wheat and corn, as well as tall grass between the spaces. The sun casts a mellow light over the farm, painting the sky and ground alike in pink and orange. Your mind conjures memories of your kids running around in this exact area, and you scowl to get rid of them.

But you came here to escape them. To try and forget, or if not that, at least to focus on something else. After you had gone to the hospital, after you had found out that……. that they had died, you didn’t want to grieve. If you were going to move on you needed to forget. But you just can’t.

You kick at a clump of grass, sending it spiralling along the floor and down the hill. Your father huffs again. Feeling tears begin to surface, you wipe them away and breathe deeply. Space out. You would give anything to have them here with you now, to see this day. To see any day.

But it’s not going to happen. You know that, and so does everyone else. It doesn’t stop you from wishing that you could talk to them one last time, to tell them everything you forgot to. You stare into the sky, empty save for the bright ball now fading into the ground.

A voice brings you back into focus. Your mother’s singsong voice comes from within the house. “Honey, dinner’s ready.”

“Coming then!” Your father turns back to address you. “Let’s go?”

You nod, hesitating a moment before turning away. He smiles apologetically at you as you pass, and you smile back. It’s not genuine, simply a reflex. Something you’ve repeated too many times, and yet must repeat a few more.

He looks at you solemnly. “Son, are you sure you’re okay?”

You shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. I guess.” You mutter the last part to yourself.

Walking through the halls and past picture frames, you spot one that catches your eye. It depicts a family, two men standing tall in the back and their wives by their sides. Two children sit in the bottom of the picture, an arrangement based on height. You swallow.

Suddenly all the composure you’ve built up is lost.

“No. No I’m sorry. I can’t stay for dinner, I have to… I have to go. I can’t stay, I can’t stay.” You shake your head and make your way outside, ignoring the calls of your parents behind you. You reach your car and jam the keys into the ignition, starting the vehicle and driving away before anyone has a chance to ask questions.

As you speed down the highway, your body is filled with a sense of dread and despair. Hidden away however, you feel a slight buzz of…. relief.


You down the entire glass in one go, the cool liquid numbing not only your sore throat but your mind as well. The last traces fizz away, and you let out a small burp. Pouring yourself another glass, it clinks against the neck of the beer bottle, letting out a sharp click through the empty kitchen.

You blink slowly, barely clearing your eyes to focus on the world around you. You tip the glass upside down, repeating the action for the sixth time now. Or maybe the seventh. You’ve lost count, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the liquid’s doing its job.

Beside you lies a pen and notepad, as well as a photo of your family, though you can’t remember its purpose at this point. You pour yourself one last glass of beer, but you don’t down it yet. This one is for savouring. Grabbing the other nearby objects, you start heading upstairs.

You sigh as you lower yourself slowly into the bathtub, you knees bent and cramped in the small ceramic dish. Placing the photo and glass of beer to the side, you reach out for the smooth, wooden grip of the pièce de résistance.

Your fingers close around the cool material, and you bring the shotgun closer.

Taking a sip of beer, you grab the small, empty-paged booklet and pen. Jotting the point of it against the paper, you test the ink to make sure it hasn’t dried up. A small breeze comes through the window, rustling the shower curtain and flipping the sheets of your journal.

Clicking the end of the writing tool against the tiled bathtub lining, you try to form ideas in your head. What to write, how to go about saying sorry. Or if you should write anything at all. You don’t think you can bear leaving this world quietly, without anyone knowing about why you did what you did.

You trail the pen further up the page and begin to write, but your mind, heart and hands seem to have conflicting ideas. Dear friends or family. I will be dead by the time

Your hands shake, struggling to hold on to the marker. Putting it back on the paper, you make an attempt to continue writing. The sorrow and rage renders you unable to control your hands, and you curse as the page tears.

You drop the pen. Fuck it. You slowly drink the remainder of the alcohol, and place the picture frame in front of you. You run your hand gently over the photo, reminiscing about your most tender moments as a family.

Assessing the smooth frame of the shotgun, you check that the shells are loaded. Snapping the weapon back together, you turn it around and prepare yourself. Bringing the barrel of the gun to your head, you finally begin to break down, realising your situation. But you do not cry.

You clench your jaw, but still speak; you sniff, and you grunt, and you quiver, and you fantasise. What if, I could have done this, imagine if. But that’s all they are. Fantasies. You mourn for your loss; mourn for the loss of your wife, your children, and the loss your friends will soon experience.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, to everyone. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you to care for you, I’m sorry that I didn’t get to tell you I loved you, I’m sorry that I wasn’t always the best father, I’m sorry that I can’t bring you back. I’m sorry that I didn’t know what to say in tough times, I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell how you were feeling on a rough day, I’m sorry that I can’t live without you.

But now I’m coming to meet you.” Steeling yourself, you place your finger on the trigger, and squeeze it slowly.

They say your life flashes before you when you die.

The only flash you see is that of the gun.