Speakeasy

by Scienza

Fame

Fame. Millions hunger for it. Thousands will kill for but one second of glorious celebrity. It’s intoxicating, as smooth and powerful as the finest liquor and as unpredictable as a hand of cards. Still, for all the countless ponies who want nothing more than to experience the money and power of fame, few ever see its darker side. What nopony ever counts on is the fact that for every adoring fan, there are at least two ponies that want to watch you fail, so that they may make their bid for prestige.

They say that classical music is not as vicious as the drug and murder filled realm of rock and hip-hop. The ponies that say that are wrong. Unlike these techno kingpins that have had ruled for decades at most, the musical dynasties of classical have had hundreds, and even thousands, of years to cement their place in high society. And most importantly, unlike the pop lords, the musical barons have built such a connection with Canterlot’s court that they are rarely, if ever, punished for their crimes. A murder among the rock stars might grant a life in prison, or even execution, while among the upper class it would warrant only a small fine or, more often than not, no punishment at all. These corrupt families have built their connections so tightly that any upset to the balance, say, a popular twenty-year old cellist from a poor family in Manehattan, has to be eliminated.

It started out innocently enough, petty little attacks that didn’t faze me. I’d open my case before a concert only to find that someone had cut my cello strings, or find graffiti spray painted on my apartment door. I thought that the other musicians were just jealous, trying to discourage me from succeeding. I should have recognized the attacks for what they were: a warning, to get out before ponies started getting hurt.

Soon, I started getting the death threats. Members of my ensemble started disappearing, first Harpo, then Beauty Brass. They found Harpo’s body in the river. They never found Beauty Brass. A few days after they found Harpo… Frederic got stabbed outside a café in Canterlot. He died shortly afterward. I tried to report it to the Canterlot police, only they wouldn’t do anything about it. The nobles had bribed the police chief, and now the forces of the law wouldn’t go anywhere near my case, even when the classical musicians decided to take it into their own hands. They started going at me with knives, cornering me after performances or on the walk back to my apartment. I grew up on the streets of Manehattan, so I could hold my own, but it was tiring.

The fans were another thing. Some of them honestly enjoyed my music, and to them I am eternally grateful. They prevented me from ending myself whenever things got really bad. Disturbingly some seemed… obsessive. I started getting stalked. I would just turn around, and there he was, this stallion in dark clothes following me wherever I went. Then one day… one day I opened the door to my apartment, and there was a stallion waiting for me. He had a knife, and he… he violated me. It hurt so much… thank Celestia that I didn’t get pregnant. Oh how my parents would be disappointed in me, my virginity taken away from me before I was even twenty-one. We were poor, but they always wanted their little girl to succeed, to prosper. They never wanted their little Octavia to shrink away from the world, abused and broken by months of never-ending attack. But I did hide. They never caught the stallion who did this to me, and to this day, I am not sure whether he was an obsessive fan, a rapist hired by the bastards who killed my ensemble, or just a random monster who needed to satisfy his cravings. Who was doesn’t matter. It had the desired effect. I stopped playing concerts… to be honest, I stopped playing music altogether for a long time. I got a job waiting tables at a local diner. And I started drinking. Hearty Appleoosan ciders, strong griffon whiskey, and even Clopka imported from Stalliongrad. I drank it all, to anesthetize the pain. I started spending more time in these bars… the ponies here don’t know who I am… they don’t care who I was. I’m just another mare drinking her sorrows away.

At one point, I made the decision to end it all. I had traveled so far from the streets of Manehattan only to fail. Instead of achieving my dreams, I was serving hay fries. One day, I left work early and walked to my apartment. I went to the roof, and stood on the edge, watching as the crowd gathered below. So ironic, that the hermit failure should die before a crowd.
“Don’t worry,” I told myself. “Where you’re going, no pony will ever be able to hurt you again.”
I jumped
.
I fell. I could see every failure flash before my eyes, every second of shame. I would be at peace soon.

I felt something heavy smash into me.

I woke up in a hospital. Apparently some pegasus had “saved” me. He damned me to more of this miserable existence. The café fired me, my landlord evicted me. I live on the streets, using what little money I have for food and alcohol. It’s poetic. I went from a Manehattan slum to the apex of Canterlot high society… and then right back to the streets.
I hope my parents can’t see me now.