What We Variously Call Grace

by I-A-M

Conscious & Unconscious

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Wallflower Blush

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There are places in my mind that are comfortably dark. Not in an unpleasant way strictly speaking, I keep it dark there by choice.

Just dark.

My therapist, Bright Eyes, told me once that all the places in our mind are like the rooms of a large house, but that the house only has so much power. Turn on the lights in one room and it’s fine. Turn them on in two dozen, and they’ll all start to dim. Turn on a hundred lights in a single room, though… and the rest of the house will go pitch black.

So, he said, I should be careful what rooms I spend energy to light up. That if a room is better left with the lights off, then I should leave them comfortably dark.

Personally, I think the dark rooms in my house have motion sensors rather than light switches.

More importantly, some people have more rooms like that than others. I remember saying, and to my surprise, he agreed.

So I asked him: what happens when those are the only rooms in the house at all?

“Does Sunset live in those rooms?”

My jaw tightens at the remark, but I bite down on the words that were crawling up my throat. Bright Eyes wasn’t accusing Sunset of anything. To even imagine that she would have a place anywhere in those rooms is laughable.

Sunset is perfect. She’s kind, gentle, and patient, even with someone like me, who probably will never deserve the kind of overflowing affection she shows. Someone who’s terrified she’ll never be able to return that affection enough to make it worthwhile.

That’s not to say Sunset doesn’t make mistakes, but more to say that even when she messes up, she somehow manages to do it perfectly.

“Sunset… she has her own rooms,” I say after a moment.

“Tell me about them.” Bright Eyes smiles as he leans back in his chair.

He’s probably one of the very few people other than Sunset that I’m alright being in a room alone with. There’s something oddly distant about him. Something not-quite-there-ish, if that makes any sense. And if I had to describe his looks in one word, I’d say: unremarkable.

Maybe that’s why I’m comfortable with him. He’s actually a lot like me, in that sense.

Drab reddish-brown hair hangs over a pair of cats-eye glasses that rest in front of brown eyes that are a little tired no matter the time of day or season. He’s about Sunset’s height, but his voice is mellow and he always dresses about a century behind fashion, and yet somehow it kind of works.

“They’re along the edges of the house,” I start, fiddling with a small, antique silver spoon that Bright Eyes always has in his office. I picked it up one day to fidget with it, and since then he always has it out. “They have bay windows, and… no matter what side of the house they’re on, the sun is always streaming in.”

“So in other words-” Bright Eyes smiles around his words as he gesticulates with a pen- “it takes no energy from you to light up those rooms.”

I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out.

“I… uhm, I guess so.” I hadn’t really meant it like that, I was just thinking of the window at the apartment. The one with all the flowers.

Going out. Doing things. Seeing people. They all sap me of what very little energy I manage to wake up with on any given day. Even on good days, I tire out easily if I’m forced to involve other people. If I had much choice I’d probably just live in the woods, dress like a goblin, and hiss at anyone who gets near me before scuttling back to my squalid lair.

“That can be risky though,” Bright Eyes says calmly. “Any spillover?”

Spillover. That’s what he calls it when light from one room spills into another. If you have two rooms side by side and turn on the light in one, it will shed at least of that light a little into the adjacent room.

Memories tie to other memories.

Even bright rooms can tie to dark ones.

“Sometimes,” I admit quietly. “Sunset goes out to get drinks with her friends once in a while, and she never gets drunk, but…”

“Is it the smell?”

I look up at him, blinking in surprise, but Bright Eyes just smiles.

“Generally speaking,” he says wanly. “Our sense of smell is the one most closely tied to memory.”

“Oh.” I card my fingers through my hair, and nod after a moment.

It is the smell. It’s not strong, but it’s definitely there. The smell of smoke and alcohol. The smell of a bar. The smell of ‘bad things’. Sunset has a few bad habits, or vices, I guess is the better word. Nothing major and nothing excessive, but they’re still there.

Smoking.

Drinking.

All things that…

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and step out of the room before the lights come on. I already know what’s in that set of rooms. I spent most of my life sitting in them with every single light in the house illuminating those grime-encrusted walls. I know every inch of them, every piece of muck and tarnish.

“Have you asked her to stop?”

“No!” I snap my eyes open and stare at him. “That’s—! That’s completely unfair!”

He cocks his head curiously. It’s a habit of his, and an odd one. With his mop of hair, crooked nose, and glasses, the motion always gave me the impression of some kind of enormous cat or corvid.

After a moment, though, Bright Eyes nods. “Okay, may I ask why that is?”

“Why it’s… unfair?” I ask softly, and he nods again. “Well it’s… it just is! I’m living in her apartment! She’s basically taking care of me right now!”

My stomach twists as I think about the thing I really don’t like thinking about, which is how much of a drain I am on Sunset. How much of a burden I am.

“I… I only work one day a week at Green Arrangements, I don’t—” I barely make any money. Sunset has to pay for almost everything. “I can’t just tell her to stop doing things she enjoys on top of that.”

Even if they make my stomach twist every time she comes home after having gone out bar-hopping with Rainbow Dash or clubbing with Pinkie Pie. Even though I know she isn’t anything like he is.

Bright Eyes leans back in his chair, hums thoughtfully, then makes a few marks on the notepad in front of him, then smiles.

“Alright, well, we’re almost out of time for the week, but I’ll ask you to do something between now and our next appointment.” He sets his pen down and leans forward, weaving his fingers together as he rests his hands on his desk.

He always does this. It’s a little like getting homework, but it’s usually a lot simpler. Or it seems that way. Before I thought he might have just been messing with me, but now I realise that what he asks me to do is usually something that helps him get a better grasp of where I am in my head.

“Think about yourself,” he says. “Not selfishly, but structurally. Think about your house. There’s damage, mold, and quite a few things in need of repair.”

I chuckle weakly and nod. That’s just the tiniest bit of an understatement. Sunset has her own issues, but her house is in pretty good order. My house doesn’t have issues, it has federal code violations that can’t even be safely addressed until I can track down an old priest and a young priest.

“Think about how to repair it,” Bright Eyes continues. “And think about how you might do that, and we’ll talk about it next week.”

I nod and stand up from the easy chair in Bright Eyes’ small office, grab my coat and scarf from the narrow rack by his door, and pull them on as he steps out from behind his desk to see me out.

The building that Bright Eyes’ office is situated in is on the edge of the Commons near downtown, about a thirty-minute walk from Sunset’s apartment. She’s at work right now at Canterlot University.

She puts in a lot of extra hours as a paid tutor through the work-study program the University offers. Sunset’s intellect is more than just surface level, she knows how to explain things so that even someone like me can understand. It makes her a great tutor, but that also means she’s in high demand, so there are nights she isn’t able to drag herself home until close to ten at night.

I’m so proud of her.

So proud. And so guilty.

I know why she does it. I know that Sunset puts in more hours than she normally would because otherwise our budget would be tough to manage. She always puts a little in savings, and I try to contribute what I can, but I just…

I can’t push myself the way she does. She’s like pure iron, fire just makes her stronger.

Put me in that fire and all I’d do is burn.

“Take care of yourself, Miss Blush,” Bright Eyes says, holding out a small appointment card. I take it even though our appointments are always on the same day and time. Sometimes I still manage to lose track of things. “Say hello to Sunset for me, will you?”

“I will,” I say with a smile.

I settle my scarf around my shoulders and pull it comfortably taut until the majority of my face is buried in it before stepping outside. In the heart of spring, Canterlot really does get beautiful, even the places that are mostly glass, steel, asphalt, and concrete. I take a deep breath and smile beneath the folds of fabric.

This isn’t actually my scarf. It’s Sunset’s scarf, but I wear it when it’s cold because it smells like her. It always made me feel a little better and, thinking back to Eyes’ remarks on smell and memory, I guess that makes sense.

I move down the stone steps and onto the sidewalk, and the bustle of Canterlot fills my ears. It’s early evening and the sun hasn’t quite started to set properly, but the sky has begun to fade in the slightest manner towards orange.

Sunset.

A tiny well of laughter bubbles up from my chest. My Sunset won’t be getting home until well after dark, like most days that she works. I start to make my way into the Commons proper as I button up my coat. The sun is shining but the wind is still chilly. It’s such a cold city, Canterlot.

I used to hate the cold. When I lived with my parents, the icy chill felt bitter and unpleasant. It felt like the city was constantly doing it’s utmost to remind me that I was alone.

Now, though, I’m not so sure.

The cold is so much more bearable when I’m next to Sunset, and actually, I think the contrast is what makes lying next to her in bed, and curling up in her arms during movie nights at home, that much nicer.

I reach the street that I would normally turn down to return to Sunset’s— no, to our— apartment, but I keep walking. There’s nothing waiting for me there except an empty home, and I don’t really want to sit alone for hours on end while I wait like a lump for Sunset to come home.

This won’t be the first time I’ve wandered the streets of the Ponyville Commons, and I’m certain it won’t be the last. It’s been a long time since I’ve just walked around in the middle of the night, and I think that’s for the best, but I still like to wander now and then. I feel better walking in the daytime now at least, which I take as a good change.

It’s a step in the right direction, at least.

It’s times like this that I’m thankful that no one seems to notice me too clearly. I can walk through a crowd, and no one will even see me. They certainly won’t remember me. That’s a comfort after a certain fashion, although I’m not sure I can describe why that is.

Only that it is.

My feet carry me around the Commons for the better part of three hours. I stop here and there to watch people pass, but never for long.

A few minutes are spent at a small park where there’s a little extra greenery to appreciate, and a little while longer at Cuppa’s, the local cafe, which I spend people-watching.

Once upon a time, this was all I ever did, especially when I was still going to CHS. Most especially when I was still holding on to the Memory Stone. I was always sitting and watching and waiting, holding on to that magic rock and convinced that all I needed was one more chance. One more first impression. One more forgotten mistake.

Just… just one more and I could finally… finally…

I could finally matter.

I chuckle softly into the scarf at that memory. It wasn’t even all that long ago but it feels like a whole other life. A life where I was still alone. Still… stuck.

In a way, I still am a little stuck. It’s why I always end up walking down this street at least once,

It’s a cramped and narrow street, part of Old Town that skirts the northern edge of the East End about ten blocks from my little single-room apartment I gave up a while ago when I decided to live with Sunset for certain. I pass the familiar alley that always stinks of trash no matter the time of year or how recently the trash was actually collected. The smell would always drift up to a certain and familiar window a floor and a half up, which is why that window was almost never opened.

“I’m telling you, Ivy, you’re better off now!”

The door to the small, squat brick home I’d paused briefly in front of slams open and the shouting voices get clearer and sharper.

“OUT!” A familiar voice snarls. “Out! Get OUT!”

An older woman in a long, wine-coloured coat with a tumbling mane of blue hair shot through with shocks of silver sweeps out of the home and down the stairs, but her head is cranked around so she can continue yelling at the home’s occupant.

“Fine! But you’re not getting rid of me that easily!” She reaches the bottom of the steps and turns fully as the person she’s been shouting at steps out of the dim home and into the fading evening light.

“Get. Out!”

She’s not a tall woman, nor particularly stout. She small and willowy, such that even I managed to grow an inch or so over her. Her hair hangs in ragged, coiled ringlets around a face that’s lined with stress and misery, and her oakmoss eyes are puffy and red and narrowed with rage.

“Consider yourself uninvited!” She snaps before turning on her heel, storming back inside the house, and slamming the door closed.

I’ve never seen her like that, and an ugly snarl of bitterness clenches in my chest.

“Pff… as if I’d go to that ba— Oh!”

The woman with silver-blue hair stumbles back from me, and I realise I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs and had been staring up at the exchange.

Rosary Wise winces when she sees me, and lets out a weak, sheepish chuckle as she clears the last step and moves around me.

“Oh, wow, I am so sorry you had to see that,” Rosary says with a dry, ragged laugh. “How embarrassing.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay, Au—...”

I choke back my words. I was about to say ‘Aunt Rosary’, but that would just be confusing. She’s not my aunt, and she never was, actually. She’s my mother’s closest friend, and my father absolutely loathes her because she’s a woman who doesn’t ‘know how to act properly’ which basically just means she never sucked up to him.

Growing up, some of my only good memories were of ‘Aunt’ Rosary. She’s weird in a lot of fun ways. She’d tell me stories about going to Catholic school, and stories about getting kicked out of Catholic school. The funniest one was about how she snuck back in to Catholic school to knock boots with the Head Girl three weeks later.

Aunt Rosary has some pretty hilarious, and awful, stories.

When I knew her she was some odd combination of pagan, wicca, and anarchist, or something like that. Or maybe she was just a nice person who cared about people, but my father always just called her a crazy old witch.

She might’ve been the last good influence my mom had in her life, but I guess it wasn’t enough.

“You okay, kid?” Rosary asks with a wry smile. It’s lopsided, and her lips always pull the left when she does it. “Guess that was kind of a slap, huh?”

She jerks her thumb back towards the house.

“O-Oh, no, it’s okay,” I say, shaking my head. “I just… are uhm, are you okay?”

Rosary frowns. If there was one person I actually regret erasing myself from the memories of, it's Rosary Wise, but at the time I’d felt like everything would just be easier if the whole world forgot I existed. If I just had a clean, empty slate, then no one could pull me back to the place I got away from.

Now I know better, but it’s too late.

“Eh, I’m fine,” Rosary shrugs and chuckles as she turns and nods. “You goin’ my way?”

“Uhm, I guess so.” I fall into step beside her as she starts walking down along the street, occasionally skipping and kicking a pebble into a storm grate.

I watch her as she walks. There’s something almost otherworldly about Rosary. If someone had come to me and told me that Rosary Wise was actually a magical being from another dimension I would have believed it on the spot. I think it might have been her influence that made me more willing to believe in the Memory Stone’s powers.

Much good that did me.

There’s just something very fae about her. Something inexplicable and good.

Which is why I’m wondering why it is that she got thrown out. She never did stay for long, but momma was always polite about asking her to leave, either because my father was about to get home, or because he was waking up. Either way, it was never a good idea for anyone involved for Rosary and my father to be in any kind of proximity.

“I uhm… I know it’s none of my business, but…” I trail off, trying to decide how to phrase it, but as usual, Rosary beats me to the punch with a smirk.

“Don’t blame ya, kid,” Rosary says, chuckling. “I’d be curious, too. But then, I’m curious about everything.”

Her smile fades to a more solemn expression. “Look, long story short, me’n Ivy, the lady ya saw back there, we used to be real close, but she married the wrong type’a guy and he treated her… we’ll call it ‘bad’.”

That was an understatement. My father is a violent, misogynistic monster. Momma wasn’t much better, honestly. She never laid a hand on me but she also never said a word about his actions except to defend him. She just ignored what was happening when it was happening, and pretended she couldn’t see the results. Her best trick was just acting like nothing happened at all and going about her day.

I hated it then, and I hate it now

Rosary shakes her head and sighs.

“Bad… yeah,” Rosary repeats quietly. “Real bad… the guy drank like a fish, had a temper like a tropical storm, and dumb as a sack of rocks, to boot. I never understood what Ivy saw in that bastard.”

“Mm…” I don’t know what to say.

‘I know?’ That’s stupid. Obviously I know, but how could I say that? So instead I just give a quiet grunt of agreement and nod.

“Anyway, the bastard finally found the bottom of that damn bottle he was always losing himself in—” I almost choke on my own tongue— “and Ivy is finally free, and what does she do? She organises a funeral and invites people to ‘pay their respects’! HA! That man didn’t earn an ounce of respect in his entire life!”

Rosary is ranting while my whole world is narrowing to a constricted band of silent, gray fog.

Dead.

He’s dead.

“—and she wanted me to go! I couldn’t give a damn about him when he was alive, why should I pay his miserable carcass any respect now that he's finally rotting in He— Kid?” Rosary turns and I realise I’ve stopped moving. I’m just staring straight forward and shaking.

My father is—

He’s dead.

“Hey, kiddo, you okay?”

Canterlot rocks around me with the wild roil of a silent earthquake, and the blue sky above spirals as the gray band of my vision tightens. Constricts.

And all the lights go out in the House.

Comments

[Gay For Gadot]

The "rooms" analogy is a good way of explaining compartmentalizing memories and emotions. I'll have to remember this.

She’s like pure iron, fire just makes her stronger.

Put me in that fire and all I’d do is burn.

While both statements are true, Wallflower doesn't quite understand that she's also the forge in the first analogy. Sunset might be steel, but Wallflower is one of those things/people that can temper her to become even stronger. That's how fierce her love is and can be.

The funniest one was about how she snuck back in to Catholic school to knock boots with the Head Girl three weeks later.

Aunt Rosary sounds like a total stud. Also, I love that you named her Rosary Wise and then made her a total alpha lesbian. My own weird mix of gayness and Christianity is loving it.

If I just had a clean, empty slate, then no one could pull me back to the place I got away from.

The problem with running away is that you can never run away from yourself. Wallflower had to learn this the hard way unfortunately, both canonically and here. :(

And all the lights go out in the House.

Damn. It's saddeningly realistic that Wallflower would react this way to her abuser dying, but it's still hard to read.

[MidnightFMare]

10637383
Once again, you steal the words from my mouth, and now they taste like bubble gum

Also,

“Generally speaking,” he says wanly. “Our sense of smell is the one most closely tied to memory.”

Don't I know it. The smell of someone, their house, their car, even the smell of pets is how I remember someone when they get close, and one smell that always makes me shy away is original Old Spice deodorant... An abuser wore it very loudly (if that makes sense) and... I, nearly a dozen years later, still feel the pain and the beginning of tears. And I hate washing my own scarves or coats or gloves or even my sheets because then they smell odd for a few days.

[HomuHomu]

I said it before I’ll say it again. Wall Flower just can’t catch a break.

[Bookwurm666]

Going out. Doing things. Seeing people. They all sap me of what very little energy I manage to wake up with on any given day. Even on good days, I tire out easily if I’m forced to involve other people. If I had much choice I’d probably just live in the woods, dress like a goblin, and hiss at anyone who gets near me before scuttling back to my squalid lair.

sounds like a plan to me

[Bookwurm666]

I chuckle weakly and nod. That’s just the tiniest bit of an understatement. Sunset has her own issues, but her house is in pretty good order. My house doesn’t have issues, it has federal code violations that can’t even be safely addressed until I can track down an old priest and a young priest.

meaning an exorcism