My Sister Fluttershy

by brokenimage321

Scene 17: Int., Home, Night. Age 20.

“Skittle, don’t forget to dust the top there.”

She turns to look at me, her eyes wide. She stands a little taller and dusts the top of the cabinet. I glance around the living room one more time. Everything looks perfect.

I hope it’s good enough.

I sent a note to Skittle right after I threw Huey out the window. She came up right away, and we’ve been scrubbing and vacuuming and polishing almost nonstop since she got here. The house shines like it never has before. Skittle even did Mom's hair. It's not much, but it makes her presentable, at least.

Skittle hasn’t said much today. She must be nervous. And who could blame her? I’m terrified.

I glance at the clock: 6:48.

I sit down on one of our ancient couches and nervously straighten the picture frames on the end table. We pulled all of Fluttershy’s photos out of the album and framed them—all of her baby pictures, school pictures, everything. We've been thinking about you, Fluttershy, they say, Honest. We didn't mean to leave you in the Forest for almost a decade.

6:52. Now I'm pacing. What will she be like? Does she like playing with the weather? Does she have a boyfriend yet? Does she hate me for everything I've done?

I look at the clock and flinch. 6:57. I can't do this. I can't. I'm leaving.

I stand and walk to the front door. I put my hoof on the doorknob.

Knock knock knock, three petite little taps.

She's here.

I gulp. I look at Skittle, and she returns the gaze, eyes wide. I realize I'm sweating. I can't do this. I can't.

But I must.

I see myself, in slow motion, turn the knob. I see the door, like a glacier sliding down a mountain, swing slowly open.

And I see Fluttershy.

She stands there, in the porch light, looking like everything I've remembered. She wears a simple traveling cloak, and, under that, two big bulges: she's brought something with her.

I see it. It's subtle, but it's there. She paws at the ground. She doesn't look at me. She's terrified, too.

I step back, and, all of us silent, she steps in. The door closes behind her. She moves to the table, takes off her cloak, folds it, and puts it down. She takes off her saddlebags too, and sets them on top of the cloak, carefully avoiding eye contact. She slowly turns around, eyes on the rug. We stand there, no one even breathing, for what seems like an eternity.

Finally, she licks her lips. She opens her mouth.

"April, I—"

Slowly, I step forward. I reach up and put my arms around her. I hold her for a second, and I whisper, “Oh, Fluttershy—I missed you so much.”

Suddenly, it all comes out. I sob like a little filly, thick hot tears running down my cheeks.

Fluttershy hugs me back. “I missed you too, April,” she says, her voice quivering. Skittle hugs us too. I can feel her body shaking.

Together, we weep. We weep out eight years of grief, of pain, of love and loss, eight years gone.

No one says anything. Nothing needs to, or, indeed, can be said at this moment. We simply open our hearts and wash our souls clean.

I lose track of how long we've been standing here. I don't care. I just want this moment to last forever.

After a long while, blinking through the tears, I see Fluttershy’s saddlebags. Something inside is moving.

I pat Fluttershy’s shoulder; she looks up at me, eyes full of tears. “Fluttershy, what’s in your bag?” I ask, nodding towards the table.

Fluttershy, still sniffling, lets go of us. She moves over to the table and opens one of her bags. Out jumps a little white thing, with long ears and two little eyes. Fluttershy gently picks him up, and walks to where Mom is sitting, still as a statue.

"Mom," she says carefully, "There's someone I'd like you to meet. Mom, this is Angel."

As I watch, a miracle happens.

Mom blinks.

She blinks several times, and, finally, her eyes come into focus. She looks down at the bunny before her, slightly confused.

And, slowly, she smiles.