Kaleidoscope

by Seer

Tides

"And how long have you been feeling like this, Miss Rarity?"

"All my life I suppose."

"All your life?" He says, and though he tries to disguise it I can hear his scepticism, "But when did it start?"

"I just told you. I've been feeling it all my life."

"What, your whole life?" he asks, eyebrow raised, "You've been feeling this since the moment you were born, the instant you came into the world?"

"Well," I begin, "That's the question, isn't it?"

---

When I was born, the second time that is, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck. They hadn't known this was a risk until it was too late. Thanks to the quick work of the staff, it never really escalated to anything serious, but had been a scare.

Sometimes, when my mother was cross with me she'd bring it up. She never meant any harm by it, in fact I think she meant it in an endearing fashion. I'd be running around, acting like children do. Then she'd huff and say, 'Rarity, you've been difficult from the moment you were born'. I have to admit that that is indeed one interpretation.

But for me, I imagined that something was keeping me suspended for a moment. Half in the world, and half in the stationary non-reality of my mother's womb. It was like the world didn't really want me. I often think about that and laugh.

Then I cry.

---

"We can find meaning in anything if we look hard enough, Rarity."

"I know. It's torture, isn't it?"

---

The first time I mentioned it was quite late on, considering how long it had bothered me. I was still too young to understand it wasn't normal. I thought these memories were just what everyone had. Most of the time it was fine. I just recalled ponies acting or doing things slightly differently. This was easily explained even for a child. Ponies change, after all.

No, the hardest thing was remembering someone who didn't seem to exist anymore.

I remembered a stallion who would sing for me when I went to sleep. I remember him listening to me prattle on about fashion. The one I had now... he tried. But his hooves were big and clumsy. He couldn't sing at all. I wanted my father. This one didn't seem right. It was like a pair of shoes that were too small.

"Mother," I began, my approximation of vocal refinement clear at only six years old, "Where is father?"

"What d'ya mean sweetheart? He's in the living room."

"No, not him. I mean where is father?"

And she looked at me with such a face of confusion and horror that even then I realised something was deeply wrong. So I never brought it up again.

---

"So, you've always had false memories?" he asks, scribbling away on his little notepad.

"I didn't say they were false."

"So you think they're real, that you had a past life?"

"I didn't say that either."

"Well..." he begins, hiding his growing exasperation very poorly, "What do you think?"

"I don't care whether I had a past life, doctor," I snap, "I appreciate that, by every estimation, I appear insane. The issue is that whether I am or not, it feels real."

"The mind can conjure sensations even when-"

"Twilight Sparkle. My friend. Do you know I remember her being my wife? I remember it as clear as day. I can still smell her mane, she used a different shampoo then. Now, she's not interested in me. All my memories are better than what I have now, doctor. So I don't really care whether it's real, the way it tortures me is real enough."

He looks at me, and I know he doesn't believe I'm in my right mind. The look is kind, and sad. He wants to help even though he can't. He has to say it, and I brace myself.

"And that's why you tried to kill yourself?"

"Yes," I breathe, feeling strangely relieved, "That's why I tried to kill myself."

I allow myself to zone out while he writes me a prescription. On the wall is a painting. Some abstract rendition of a building against the night sky. It's beautiful, and I have no memory of seeing it before at all. I hold onto that and get lost in it.

---

They let me out of hospital after a few weeks. Said I wasn't a risk anymore. I've always been quite a good liar, a lifetime of hiding something will help you with that.

I hailed a taxi and asked the pony pulling it to take me somewhere beautiful. I don't think they understood really, and their tone implied I had unsettled them. But even so, they did as I asked. They took me to a beach. It was grey, misty. The sands were dark. It was hardly the image of a beach that most ponies would have. But they were right, it was beautiful.

As I walked down to the water, I looked behind me at the hoof-prints I left. Conventional wisdom was that they'd be gone tomorrow, but I feared I knew better than that.

"I'm sorry."

I startled at the voice, and turned to its source. The mare was small, I loomed over her even as I tried not to. She had kind eyes. Tired, but kind. Her coat and mane were both white. Albinism was rare, but not unheard of. She was quite beautiful actually.

"I'm sorry miss, I must have misheard you," I reply, voice strained, "What could you have to apologise to me for?"

And she didn't respond with anything other than that smile. She reached out to pass me something, and when I saw it I didn't quite know how to react. It was a little model of Twilight, of my wife. She always used to love my art. So, one day, I carved her figurines of the two of us. She'd loved it.

Insane or not, the agony was real either way. I didn't check to see whether the mare or her little model were still there. Instead I began to walk forward. I didn't stop moving until my head dipped below the sea, and then I stopped moving all together.

Comments

[_Moonshot]

Your stories at their best have a sort of dreamy driftiness to them, and this captures that well.

Really liked Chapter 1. Concise and definitive, good hook. This chapter does a good job of providing us with just enough information to ground ourselves, but keep questioning. Will add some more thoughts as I read: nothing decisive yet.

Just a couple small minor things, and please correct me if I'm wrong:

"All your life?" He says

"He" should be lowercase

and though he tries to disguise it I can hear his scepticism, "But when did it start?"

I think "But" should be lowercase? That's what the rules I've read online say, anyways.