Bringing Back The Laughter

by Flutterpriest

Chapter 2 - Snowybee - Scootaloo

“My aunties sat me down yesterday afternoon. A-after crying for a long, long time. I'd never seen them like that — and that's what got to me more than anything else. I'd never seen any of my friends or family like this. And I can't see them going back to where they were before.

“I guess I already know there's nothing we can do about it. It's hopeless. We're all helpless. I stopped crying that night when I thought of it like that. What's the use?

“I know it sounds horrible. I felt like dirt. I still do. I-I cried too. I miss her too, and it hurts so much. I don't want to think about going back to Ponyville now. I don't even know what to think or feel. But maybe it's not enough. Maybe I didn't really care about her. Maybe you just want everyone to pretend it'll all be okay, so you can go back to your happy little life because you don't care about her like we did.”

Scootaloo recalls that the words were viper spit. Poisonous, almost hateful. Her throat had closed up tight as she regaled the old mare in the rocking chair. Her best impression of those words from her best friend come out, at best, as sickly, brittle, wet, dry.

Her hooves dig into the colorful rug she sits on. The sound of wind-chimes back her laborious and painful breaths as she tries to get it back together.

The old mare, ever at peace, rocks her chair and squints through her glasses at the child. A tree branch lay across her lap. “Are you gonna need a bucket? I'm not keen on picking up after you if you're gonna get hysterical.”

She shakes her head negative. “S-s-sorry. I'll be fine. And, um, thank you again. For humoring me. I feel awful. We both came from the same funeral. S’not fair to you.”

Eyes cast down, Scootaloo counts the moments. Every one spared gives her more composure. She's already resigned to the shame of imposing on the crabby but kind mare.

Then, the old mare fakes a laugh. The wrinkles dragging her face into that perma-grimace old folks have besets the laugh a bit, but it still eases Scootaloo. “It's alright, kiddo. It's not the first Pie I've had to part with. I'd be a washout if I couldn't play grandma every now and again.”

Not the first? Her heart sinks. Scootaloo licks her dry lips. “You… You're old. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“So you knew her granny, didn't you?”

“That I did. My best friend. I miss her dearly.”

Scootaloo stares into the old mare's eyes. Deep sadness sloshes around in them, tears waiting to burst. Yet she doesn't recall seeing the mare cry. She stood alongside Pinkie’s parents for most of it. She looked almost like a statue, and she shouldered more than a few ponies.

But, like Scootaloo, the tears somehow ran dry.

To even accuse her of not caring seemed… Insulting. Her friend’s hurtful words — she craves to strike back. She wants the righteous fury, to scream and cry.

But she doesn't even know what to feel. She doesn't even know what tomorrow is. Scootaloo wants to be all things at once, but at the same time she wants to curl up and die. To choose any one thing feels like the worst insult of all. Like an insult to the dearly departed.

The old mare, sensing that Scootaloo’s inner battle had waned to a whimper, offers a knowing smile. “I was inconsolable. So was that pink headache, bless her heart. I might have even fed into the doom and gloom that threatened to ruin us both.” With a longing gaze, she traced her rickety hoof along the tree branch. “She went on walks every day after that. She never smiled. She said that it felt like smiling would have been like telling the world that losing her Granny Pie was okay.

“But her Granny Pie died smiling. No other pony in the room could stop the tears and frowns, but my dear friend couldn’t help but beam. It made losing her hurt all the more. To see her so happy that we cared so much must have been a supreme joy. To be surrounded by the ones she loved...

“I felt the same as Pinkie Pie. I couldn’t find the joy in life no more. I sat cooped up in my home for days. The world had ended. All the life and color was gone. The end. Game over. But you know what I didn't stop hearing?”

Scootaloo swallowed. “What's that?”

“The chimes. I make them for a living. Not quite the one mare chime factory I once was. But at the time, I didn't make a single bell or carving. I just listened to the old ones that me and her made, hanging outside. Little Pinkie never knew that about ‘em.

“I was so livid when I caught her that day. I kept hearing the chimes act up, even on days with no wind scheduled. She'd be out there, stick in her teeth, sulking on one of them walks, and she'd play with my chimes on her way.

“But then? She stopped by one day. Up til then, Pinkie never said a word. We were both stuck at the funeral, all quiet and respectful to the quiet. But that day, she was smiling wide as ever. ‘I got to thinking, Auntie. Maybe Granny Pie wasn’t smiling because she was happy? Maybe she was smiling for our sake. Granny taught me that a smile is how you share your strength with everypony. She didn’t want us to ever stop.’”

Scootaloo takes a deep breath. Her lip trembles. For once, the weight on her chest feels a little lighter. “I-I see. I think. I have to give it — us, my friend — time, I guess. Do as Scootaloo does. Be the bell ringer.”

The old mare’s brow raises. For once, she seems wanting for words. Silently, she eases back in her seat and stares at the ceiling like a passing cloud. “I ain’t telling you nothing, Scootaloo. Just a story. Mushy one at that. All my decades don’t give me the right to dictate a single day of Scootaloo’s life. But what I will say is to not scratch my chimes with this nasty log. Pinkie had manners and learned to use that bushy tail ‘o hers.”

Supposing that another apology would be profuse, Scootaloo gives her best sheepish grin. “Sadly, my filly tail isn't long enough for that. They just sounded so pretty, and I wanted to get those words out of my head.”

“Your friend is grieving too. While I find it disagreeable, some folks lash out. There's no contest, nor shame, in this grieving business.” Her face became hard. “If your friendship is strong, everything will be okay.”

But the words, ceaseless shovels, dig at her even then. Scootaloo’s wings fold up, rigid. “Even if she’s wrong — even if she didn't mean it… I still don't think I have a right to feel whatever it is I'm feeling. Why do I feel so guilty? Why?”

After a long spell of quiet and wind-chimes, the old mare lifts her hoof from the tree branch. “Go ahead and take this. Just this once. Have at them. I could use it too.”

Scootaloo’s eyes widen. “Are you sure? You looked ready to beat me senseless with that earlier.”

“Eh. I used to pretend to be mad when I caught the pink headache at it. That mane of yours brought me back all them years for a moment.”

The little filly can't help but blush. “R-right. I guess playing with wind-chimes is a decent answer.”

The old mare cocks a brow. “It's more of a distraction.”

But Scootaloo shakes her head. “Pinkie did stuff like this back at Ponyville too. It's not much, but maybe I can take up the, uh, torch. I promise I won't light the stick on fire.”

“If I hear you burned someone’s house down, I’ll personally put you in the dirt, young lady.”

“Aunt Lofty already has dibs on that one.”

After a tiny laugh, the filly plays at the windchimes and the old mare listens on a warm summer’s night.

Author's Note:

https://www.fimfiction.net/user/24616/Snowybee

Comments

[AMuffinlover]

what a warm ending. Glad this one isn't as depressing as the previous two.

[RK_Striker_JK_5]

Okay, nice. Uplifting at the end.

[Andy Ray]

But who's the old lady ?