My Sister Fluttershy

by brokenimage321

Scene 14: Int., House, Morning. Age 20.

“Dear April, Sorry for the late notice, but Cloud Division is closed today.”

I groan and scan the rest of the note. Some idiot working graveyard shift managed to flood the Factory, and it’s going to be at least another week before they have everything cleaned up. It’s signed by my manager.

And I’m all ready to go, of course. I was actually on my way out the door when I stepped on the note. I sigh in frustration and wad the letter into a little ball. I shoot it at the trashcan—and miss. I groan again.

I stomp back to my bedroom and strip off my uniform. I fold it up and put it away, then flop on my bed. I suppose I could get up and see if my friend needs any help moving today…

I feel a sudden wave of apathy wash over me. I don’t want to move boxes today. I don’t want to do anything.

I roll on my side, and grimace as I see Fluttershy’s little bed leaning against the wall. I’ve been meaning to move it out of here for years, but I’ve never gotten around to it. Not going to do it today, either. I stand up, and start walking into the kitchen. As I walk through the doorway I pause, then take a few steps backward. That model is staring at me from her place on top of my dresser.

Yes, I had recovered the ad. I was scared that night, but no denying there’s something special about her. The ad had been migrating around the house for months; I’d pick it up, carry it with me for a bit, then I’d absently set it down somewhere. I must have brought it into my room with me and left it on the dresser by accident.

I pick it up and carry it into the kitchen. I drop the ad on the table, then flop down in a chair opposite Mom, her bowl of soup still steaming.

I gaze listlessly around the room, letting my mind wander. I really should be doing something right now, but I don’t care. I just feel like sitting here, doing nothing until something better comes around...

Suddenly, I sit up.

In the corner of the kitchen stands a small bookshelf, where we keep a few cookbooks and some personal mementos. In the place of honor is a big red book, the words “FAMILY ALBUM” embossed in gold on the cracked leather spine. I stare at it for a moment before I decide to take it down off the shelf. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at it. Maybe memories of better times will cheer me up.

I pull down the album and set it on the table. I open it to the first page. There’s a photo of Dad’s first race, a faded blue ribbon pressed underneath the plastic. Below that, a picture of Mom trying to hide behind an older mare, who I’ve always assumed is Grandma. Below that, a fourth grade class photo, with Mom and Dad sitting next to each other, avoiding eye contact.

I turn the page. I smile and turn it again. And again. These pages are full of photos of Dad racing, nearly all of them accompanied by a photo of him in the winner’s circle. If I look carefully, I can find Mom in almost all of these photos—she’s always on the front row of the stands, cheering like crazy.

Next page. Photos from high school: Mom in a production of Death of a Salesmare. Dad hanging out with the track team. Mom and Dad sitting together at lunch. Graduation: Mom and Dad hugging, Dad kissing Mom on the cheek, Mom blushing bright red. After that, a photo of Dad talking to an older pony in a suit. Dad’s wearing his bright red varsity jacket, a pair of gold wings pinned to the white letter “C” on his shoulder. He’s trying to hide a smile.

The next few pages are wedding photos. A picture of Mom and Dad in the church, he, handsome in a rented tux, she, beautiful in a long white gown. Photos of the reception: Mom and Dad dancing in the middle of the floor, grinning like idiots. Dad stunned, face plastered with cake frosting, Mom with her head thrown back laughing. A group photo of everyone, Mom and Dad at the front and center.

I stare at that last photo for a long time. Is that a little bump under Mom’s dress? I can never decide.

The next page starts with a photo of Mom in a hospital bed, a tiny me in her arms. Dad sits in a chair by the window, looking happy but exhausted. His factory uniform is so new he still hasn’t worn out the creases. A few photos of me as a toddler— me in a high chair, face covered in applesauce, and another of my first steps, Mom close behind with arms outstretched.

Next, another baby photo. Mom and Skittle in the hospital, Dad holding a bewildered two-year-old me in his arms. A few photos of me pretending to be Skittle’s mommy: me holding her bottle, me trying to burp her, and a third of me crying while Mom tries to clean the spit-up off of me, a big smile on her face.

A picture of me on my first day of school, standing nervously by the front door, saddlebags full of pencils and notebooks.

I turn the page and pause. These are photos of Dad’s last race. The first one is of Dad himself, standing in front of the Cloudiseum, a card with the number 13 pasted on his flank, Skittle and I standing by his side. He’s flashing the camera a nervous grin. Behind him is a banner that reads “WELCOME, AMATEUR RACERS.” Next is a faraway photo of him in the starting gate, muscles tensed, tongue between his teeth. Skittle and I are in the bottom of the frame, our arms in the air, cheering.

I sigh. That was the only race he ran in his adult life, I think. I slowly turn the page.

This time, there is no winner’s circle. Just a picture of us, together, close to the finish line. Dad is covered in sweat and trying to smile, but there’s pain and disappointment in his eyes. Skittle and I stand off to the side, forcing smiles for the camera. Mom leans on Dad, eyes closed tight. She looks sad and worried and disappointed all at the same time.

She also looks like she’s gained a lot of weight...

The next photo is all of us in the hospital again. Dad and Skittle stand on one side of the bed, smiling wide. I’m on the other side, staring in awe. Mom is in the middle, lying in the bed, and, in her arms, a little yellow thing with a poof of pink mane...

I freeze.

Slowly, I turn to look at the juice ad sitting on the table. I look back at the baby picture, then back to the ad, unbelieving.

Sweet Celestia. Fluttershy!

I scramble out of the chair and grab the ad. I scour it for a name. No mention of the model, but I find the name and address of the juice company, printed in tiny letters underneath. They have an office here in Cloudsdale!

I top off Mom's bowl, grab my coat, and I’m gone.