• Published 24th Feb 2020
  • 822 Views, 58 Comments

Just Thoughts - PonyAmorous

Twilight Sparkle is fine. She would never intentionally hurt herself. They're just morbid thoughts. Nothing to worry about. She's not suicidal, or even depressed! But Wallflower might be. Should she say something? Is it any of her business?

  • ...


"Hey, Twilight!" I turn to see Sunset jogging up to me in the hallway. "Me and the rest of the girls were planning to cruise the mall, maybe head over to Pinkie's for a movie night afterwards. You in?"

"Oh, uh, sorry. I've got plans."


"Yeah. With Wallflower."

"Oh, right! She was telling me you two had started hanging out together. That's great! I was worried she'd never open up to anyone else. Until now, I got the impression I was the only one she even talked to, and even then, that was more her barely tolerating me, but it sounded like you two were really hitting it off."

"Yeah, she's...pretty fun actually."

"Glad to hear it. Of course, you're both welcome to join us, but I understand if Wallflower still isn't up for large groups. Especially with the kind of energy a super-extrovert like Pinkie brings."

"Right, probably not. Our hangs are definitely a lot less...lively. Sorry."

Sunset waves a dismissive hand. "Totally not a problem. Everyone's got their own speed. But yeah, the three of us should definitely get together some time, don't you think?"

"Uhh, yeah. I guess that could be fun."

"Right, we'll have to work something out later. Anyway, have fun!" Sunset runs off to join up with the rest of the girls.

"You too!" I shout back after her.

Somehow, it had completely slipped my mind that Sunset and Wallflower were friends, though I'm not sure how close they actually are. I wonder if Sunset knows about Wallflower's 'habit'. She'd never mentioned it, but then again, neither had I. Probably because a good friend didn't go blabbing secrets that weren't theirs. Either Sunset didn't know, in which case that was the way Wallflower wanted it, or she did and simply exercises the same discretion I do.

I pull my bag over my shoulder and start making my way to the roof to meet Wallflower. About two weeks back, I had shown her my secret lunch spot, and since then we'd frequently meet up there to just chill, enjoy the view, and people watch as all the students dispersed at the end of the day. Usually, it wouldn't be long until we went to my place and my garage/lab, but one time we spent so long chatting and playing dumb games like Word Chain or virtual chess on our phones, that we lost track of time and got a rooftop view of the setting sun. Thankfully, the school didn't have any motion sensor alarms, and the doors were the kind with the bar that pushes open from the inside and locks automatically behind you, so we were able to slip out long after closing time without being caught.

As I step up onto the roof, something flies at my face. My hand shoots up to catch it, though this isn't nearly as impressive a feat of reflexes as it would be without the purple glow of my magic rapidly slowing it. I examine the projectile and find a large chocolate cookie wrapped in plastic. Wallflower is standing a few feet away, waving and eating a cookie of her own.

"Thanks, but are you ever going to stop throwing things at me?"

"Just as soon as telekinetic powers stop being cool, so, probably not any time soon."

I just roll my eyes and pull two soft drinks out of my bag, tossing one to her, which she catches with the hand not currently occupied with cramming the cookie into her mouth. I join her by the ledge, where we both enjoy our decidedly unhealthy after school snack before we head back to my place.


I put the labeled container of potassium back down in its spot on the lab bench, next to the ytrium and the sulfur, and steal another glance back at Wallflower, currently sprawled across the couch and flipping through a gardening magazine. The scalpel I left out sits nearby, still unused. This is the third time in a row that she's come over and hasn't cut herself once.

That's good news. Isn't it? That could mean she's getting better. That she's losing the need to harm herself. That's undoubtedly, unquestionably a positive development. One worthy of celebration.


What if it's not? What if it just means she's grown more self-conscious around me? Does she think I'm silently judging her? What if that just makes her cut herself in secret somewhere else? Somewhere that's less safe?

This is bad. She could be regressing. I need to do something. I need to find some way to show her that I'm not judging her. That this is a safe place where she doesn't have to hide herself. But what?

Not paying attention, I accidentally brush my hand against the edge of the hot plate. I give a small yelp and quickly pull it back, shaking it in the air.

"You alright?" Wallflower glances up from her magazine.

"Fine, I'm fine. Just being an idiot over here."

She shrugs and returns to her reading. I look at the small red mark, already fading away. It's no big deal, the plate wasn't even that hot. It won't leave a burn.

I'm struck by an idea.

I grab a metal spatula and hold the tip in the flame of the bunsen burner, the same way I always do when I need to sterilize it and burn off any chemical residue. I hold it there for a good 30 seconds. I slide off one sleeve of my lab coat, providing better access to my shirt, which I roll up just enough to expose the side of my stomach, just above my right hip. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Wallflower, still reading her magazine. I give a quick cough, enough to make her glance up, and when I'm sure I'm in her field of view I grit my teeth and quickly press the heated end of the spatula against my exposed skin.

There's a sharp hiss as I inhale through my teeth. It definitely hurts, though not quite as much as I expected it to. Keeping it pressed against my side and overpowering the reflex to jerk it away is a lot easier than I thought, and it only gets easier after the first second as the metal cools, dispersing its heat into me and gradually dropping the rate of transfer over time.

Wallflower doesn't say anything, but I can feel her eyes on me. On the large discolored mark seared into my skin. In the corner of my eye, I can see her glancing at the scalpel on the nearby table and fidgeting. She looks at the scalpel, then back at me, then back at the scalpel again. Finally, I see her reach for it.

That's...well, not good I guess. No, I wouldn't say that. But at least she doesn't feel like she has to hide herself from me anymore. This might be a bit...unorthodox, but it's all in the interest of solidarity and building rapport. You can't help someone without that.

The metal spatula has cooled to the point that it's no longer even noticeable through the patch of loud, angry, burned skin. I move it back into the flame.