• Published 24th Jul 2012
  • 2,977 Views, 107 Comments

The Witch - DavidReinold

A young man attempts to unravel the mystery that is Twilight Sparkle.

  • ...

Cantamen Primum - Bibliotheca Hieme (VI Pars - Quid Est Intus?)

It is the second night in a row that I have fallen asleep without realizing it. Fortunately, I wake up in my bed this time. Or at least, on the bed. Close enough, I think to myself. Unfortunately, my face has become a makeshift putty mold for the form of the heavy volume I had apparently used as a pillow.

My arms extend forward from my body, lifting me from my excessively comfortable cot and causing me to accidentally topple onto the cold hardwood floor of my humble abode. A clock on the wall lands haphazard in the corner of my vision and I note the time to be a quarter after nine.

I blink one eye hard. Then the other. Then a deep breath in before attempting to put myself right as I become reacquainted with my bedroom. Hello bedroom, nice to meet you. Lovely day, isn't it?

To confirm the accuracy of this nicety I have just had with my non-sentient place of residence, I look out the window and see just the opposite. A flurry of snowfall reduces the visibility outside than no more than a few metres, collecting a white flaky hoard of frigid dust upon my window sill.

With this, I notice a chill in my bones, and I decide to remove myself from the floor so that I might dress myself in warmer attire.

* * *

An hour later I stand at the stove in my kitchen. Before me is a pan, and upon it, an egg. I gaze softly at it as the clear gooey albumen slowly heats itself into a very delicious shade of porcelain white. At the center, the yolk lolls around lazily, seemingly unperturbed by the fiery hell that sits just below its iron resting place. None too happy with its comfort, I slide my spatula underneath the egg and turn the smarmy casket of breakfast protein on its head. Its only scream is a hiss of bubbling lava performed by the ever-talented layer of fat separating the egg from the pan.

Moments later I dump the fried egg unceremoniously upon a free plate. The salt and pepper shakers are upended in my hands as I douse the fried ovum liberally. Grabbing a fork, I seat myself upon a chair and take up the egg upon my utensil.

Without thinking, I cram half of the egg in my mouth. I am absolutely starving. Chew, chew, chew, swallow, breathe. Another forkful, rinse, and repeat, and suddenly the egg is gone. I stare down at my plate.

I need more egg.

Without the slightest bit of thought I yank the refrigerator door open wide and retrieve the carton of eggs from its depths. I crack one more egg over the pan. Then another. Then a third for good measure. They fry, and scream their melodious hissing noise across the merciless griddle. I slish-slosh them around a bit before digging them off the edge of the pan and folding over themselves.

I bring the spatula down sharply upon them and press the juices out of them. Their screams grow and their contents bulge out the sides of the fried white. Yellow and pale mingle on the edge and suddenly my eggs are ready. Plate again. Forget the salt. Forget the pepper.

You know what? Forget the fork, too.

My hand sweeps the large three-in-one egg off the pan and onto my plate. I look at it for a moment, before tipping my plate back and ripping off a large chunk of egg with my teeth. Taking up the remainder in my right hand, I drop the plate to the floor. The piece of dishware shatters upon impact.

I take no notice, choosing instead to shove the remainder of the eggs gracelessly into my mouth. Munch munch munch. The bolus enters my stomach via the esophagus. But I'm still hungry. Still starving, in fact. I rush to the fridge a third time only to find that the carton of eggs is still on the counter. I lift the cover, to see that there are only two eggs left. That's hardly enough. Angrily, I crack the eggs over the edge of the counter and drop the contents into my mouth. Casting the husks aside, I turn back to my refrigerator and scour its contents. Milk, butter, lettuce, chilled tea, tomatoes, olives. I shove them all to the sides and finally spot my prize; the loaf of bread.

I rip open the packaging and shove slice after slice between my teeth as though they were candy. Now this is filling. I take a seat back upon my bed and, dropping the loaf of bread to my side, rest my free hand upon something flat and hard.

The book.

My eyes open wide as they land upon the picture of Twilight Sparkle, the previous day now rushing back to me. My eyes slide closed involuntarily and I am suddenly bombarded with images of a flesh-and-blood equine Twilight. Her knowing smile is intact but everything else is strange. Her hair, now a mane, is parted by a unicorn's horn, and her tiny, dexterous hands are replaced by hooves. And upon what I suppose I would call her flank, is some sort of six-point-star insignia. Yet for all her alterations, she is still beautiful. I want to reach out a hand and touch her. I want to hold her face in my hand and caress it softly. But as my arm stretches into view, I realize I have no hand. Just claws, the same hue as Twilight's coat.

I force my eyes open and find myself breathing rapidly. My eyes dart from the shattered plate, to the empty egg carton, to the fridge door left open as food products roll around haphazard and upset upon their shelves. Finally, my eyes rest upon the book. This book, this book this book. I spot the ink print of stained-glass equine Twilight once more. My body leans forward before toppling off my bed and onto the floor. I sit there for a minute, trying to catch my breath and clear my head.

What is happening to me...?

Several moments pass, my eyes blinking and attempting to focus on the floor before me. Suddenly, I feel a sensation welling up inside my gut. I push off from the ground instinctively and force myself to my feet, stumbling through my house, finally reaching the bathroom.

I kneel down just in time for my breakfast to make a rocky return trip.

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