My Sister Fluttershy

by brokenimage321

Scene 10: Ext., Weather Factory, Morning. Age 20.

“Morning, April.”

“Good morning, sir.” I nod at my manager and pull my timecard out of the rack.

He checks his clipboard. “It looks like you’re hauling today.”

“Yes, sir.” I sigh. I punch my timecard. Time to get to work.

These days, it seems like all I do is punch my timecard. Work eat sleep, work eat sleep, lather rinse repeat. It’s been the same thing, every single day, for the past seven years.Well, there has been one change. I got "promoted," if you call it that, to the Cloud Division. I didn't think anything could be worse than Sleet, but apparently I was wrong. The work is hot, humid, and miserable. Today, apparently, I’m hauling buckets of water from the giant tank to the boiling vats. Other ponies pump the bellows, keeping the fires hot and the water boiling, and others are working the Condenser, using the steam to make proper clouds. They’re a lot more strict about safety, too—after that accident when Daddy fell asleep at one of the big machines, Management keeps a sharp eye on everyone, and they yell at you if you make even a tiny mistake. Which means I spend all day breaking my back while walking on eggshells. Exactly what I wanted from life.

Mom is still broken. She sits in her kitchen chair all day, staring out the window, looking twenty years older than she should. Sometimes I see a flicker of... something—an eye blink, a twitch of the ear—but mostly she just stares, dead-eyed, at the forest. I keep a pot of thin carrot soup on the stove, and give her a bowl every morning and night. Sometimes it's gone when I go to refill it, sometimes it's not. Sometimes she's in her chair in the kitchen, sometimes she's in bed. I never actually see her move; it feels more like I'm watering a plant than caring for my own mother.

Skittle and I haven’t really spoken in years. After the funeral, she buried herself in music and magazines. For the first few months, I tried to crack her shell—tried to talk to her about her day, tried to get her to help out around the house—but she shut me out. Things stayed like that until she graduated high school, when she skipped town. The first I heard of it was when she left me a note with a Canterlot forwarding address. I have no idea what she’s doing there—the address sounds like it’s a bakery or something, but Skittle’s not the baking type.

Frankly, I’m worried about her—as much as we don’t get along, she is still my sister, and it’s my responsibility to make sure she’s okay. I send her a couple hundred bits out of my paycheck each month. When work gets hard, I pretend Skittle needs the money I send her.

I think of Skittle a lot.

I suddenly realize I'm punching my timecard again. Startled, I look at the horizon; the sun is setting.

Time to go home.

Lather, rinse, repeat.