Joe

Joe ran his short, stubby fingers across the length of the television screen. His eyes were entranced by the dancing colors twirling about before him, and the audio was so soft that his eardrums could hardly pick up on it. As Joe’s fingers hit the bottom of the screen, he hung his head, where his eyes fell to the My Little Pony t-shirt he wore despite the fact that he was fifteen years old. There was a reason Joe was kneeling before the television, and a reason why the audio was so soft. It was because he didn’t want anybody to hear it.

This was a typical Saturday morning.

Joe backed away from the television screen. His favorite program, My Little Pony, had just come on, and a new episode was being aired. The opening credits streamed through his television set, a scene which he had known by heart for over a year now. The smile on his lips stung, but he kept wearing it. He winced as he settled into the recliner behind him; a pang of pain shot up his right side. The bruises there were fresh. Joe heaved a heavy-hearted sigh and he gripped at the end of the recliner armrests. He’d recover from his injuries by sitting in that chair over the course of the next few hours.

His hair was dark and unrefined. It was strewn about his face in a messy manner, concealing his sharp blue eyes behind a mask of the stuff. He had a face beset with freckles and complexion complications, as he was still but a young boy. He wasn’t exactly portly, but he wasn’t exactly skinny either. According to his doctor, he is to even out around the age of nineteen. One could say he had big bones. It’s not that Joe had ever truly thought about it, he didn’t care much for his appearance. He had hardly kept the thought in mind, as it hadn’t pertained to his life in the slightest.

Joe’s conspicuous look defined him. It wasn’t that he was a rebel, or an outlaw, or a barbarian, it simply stemmed from the fact that he didn’t care. Bad genetics, he called it. If anything, it was a look that fought back. It was a look of dejection, and fatigue, and animalism. It was a sad look, complete with bags under the eyes and slumped posture. Joe called it something else, however. For him, it was a look of survival.

Survival was key.

His breaths became uneasy as he heard a disturbance upstairs. His father had evidently woken up, and he was late for work again. His father’s bedroom was directly above the basement. He could hear every apathetic groan in the floorboards as his father shuffled his large feet around. A door slammed, and the footsteps slowly dissipated from earshot, where they were slowly replaced by the soft audio eking from out of the television set. Joe swept a long strand of hair from out of his face. He watched the newest episode of his show with intense, almost paranoid, focus.

If the visuals of the program provided anything aesthetically pleasing to him, it was hard to discern from behind his weather-worn facade. Almost always his expression remained passive and resolute. Occasionally, a broken smile would appear on his lips. But this occurrence was rare as it was truly difficult for him to achieve. Was it the syntax that provided his like of the show? This couldn't be known.

So it was far from easy to tell just what the show provided for him. The recliner sucked him in, and his eyes remained glued to the television. He emoted no more than a sly smirk every now and then. Anybody who had a mind would ask why Joe regularly watched a program intended for little girls. With all due respect, it definitely did beg the question: what did he gain from this?

Well, Joe, the boy with the broken heart and years spent in a precarious mental condition, would say it provided him with a shimmering glance of hope.

His eyes did not so much as flit from anywhere but the edges of the screen as he tuned in to the program. Today’s episode featured the character Pinkie Pie and the familiar escapades that had become associated with her character. Though his favorite character, Princess Luna, was not featured in this episode, Joe was enjoying it as much as he had any other. The bright colors, the exuberance of the characters, and the mix of adventure and humor brought the show to life. Joe showed nothing of interest on the outside, but inside, he was more than likely smiling, though what proof there was of this was none.

The familiar aroma of coffee wafted its way into the basement. Joe both adored and despised the smell. He didn’t exactly enjoy the taste of the stuff, it was the smell that was enticing. But the taste alone wasn’t enough to fuel his hatred for the substance. The taste he could handle. The taste he could swallow. What the coffee stood for is what ultimately led to his severe dislike.

Suddenly, a single light flickered on in the room, illuminating the dark corners in which the television could not reach. Joe looked on unsurprised, absorbed in the television program, as if this were routine. Truth is... it was.

“Turn it off.”

The voice behind him was deep but unconvincing, and it rattled around and died in the floorboards without putting up much of a fight. Joe did not move. The silence that followed sucked the air out of the room.

“I said turn it off.”

Joe gripped the edges of the armrests. His deadpan stare was directed straight at the television, but his interest no longer lied in the watching of the colorful ponies on the screen. He knew what was about to happen. It was best to take it. It was best to defy the voice and fight back by taking it.

“You heard me you worthless piece of shit.”

Joe was ripped from his recliner chair by the forceful hands of his father, where he was instantly spat out on the couch. Another pang of pain shot up his right side as the bruises still prevalent from yesterday continued to irk him. He clutched at the sore spot. The television screen went black and crackled with a familiar buzzing sound. His father threw the remote onto the floor in a nonchalant fashion, and the batteries from the device were flung onto the floorboards. Joe hardly registered a response to this.

“You think its funny?”

Joe’s father had a cold stare. His eyes were filled with nothing but the intention of watching other’s suffer, and that more often than not included his pathetic son. Joe looked away from those menacing eyes. He stared into the single light bulb that dangled from a string in the center of the room, hoping that if he gazed into it long enough, it would burn his eyes away.

“This ain’t no time for games. I can play games too, you know.”

In a speedy dash, Joe’s father lunged past the recliner and punched out the light fixture that Joe had been staring at, cutting the light out instantly and sending shards of glass crashing into the floorboards. Joe flinched. The next instant, Joe’s neck was caught in the torturous grasp of his hotheaded father as he drained the life from him.

“Boy, I ain’t got time for you! I tell you to do something, you do it. Got it?”

Joe could hardly breathe.

“Miserable son of a bitch.”

Joe was hurled onto the floor. His head hit the table in front of the couch and brought about a nasty gash across his forehead. He landed face down, and his blood seeped into the musky floorboards. The grapefruit sized bruise on his right side never stopped acting up. Joe just ate it. He sat there and took his medicine.

Nothing happened after that. Joe resisted his father by not giving him the satisfaction of knowing he was in paralyzing pain. Joe heard a few footsteps behind him that sounded as if they were leaving.

“How could I have possibly gotten stuck with a son like you?”

Sometimes Joe asked himself the same question.

The escalation had come to an end just like that. Joe heard the door slam shut behind him. His father could be heard trudging back up the stairs.

Joe watched his blood drip from the bangs of his shaggy hair.

In a series of incredible efforts, Joe attempted to pry himself from the floor. He grabbed his throbbing forehead and propped himself up on an elbow. He begrudgingly brought himself to his knees, but only after numerous failed attempts beforehand. Exhausted, he put his bloodied hands onto his knees. They had been sitting in the pool of blood accumulating on the floor. After five minutes of excruciating pain and daunting physical exertion, Joe had slithered his way onto the couch.

His young body wasn’t built for this. Every day his body became more and more fragile, his bones more brittle. Soon he’d wind up with as similar a fate as the light bulb now strewn about the room. His breaths came in odd, periodical, whooshing gasps of air. He wasn’t done yet. He had to continue to fight. He had to make his way over to the television. It was a matter of pride at this point.

Joe dropped to his knees as soon as he left the couch. He tediously crawled his way over to the television, a trip that seemed to take forever. He felt light-headed. There was a cloth on the table before him and he used it to stab at the wound on his head. He stretched his right arm out with more effort than it should have taken to perform the task. His fingers ran along the length of buttons on the television set. He pushed in one one of them with his index finger.

The screen buzzed to life.

In a ritualistic manner, Joe ran his fingers along the length of the screen, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. He was treated to his favorite show once again; the television screen showed him his favorite pony on full display, as a majority of them occupied the entirety of it. This was evidently part of the episode.

Incredibly, Joe smiled.

His fingers reached the bottom of the screen and they lingered there. The episode was coming to a close. He had missed a good chunk of it. Joe failed to appear glum. Instead, he began to dream.

Perhaps Joe did watch the show for a particular reason. For the most part, it provided an escape from the mundanities, or rather the agony, of the everyday. Another part of it may have been the inspiration it has given him. See, Joe had a dream. Joe wanted to visit the colorful world of Equestria, to live and prosper as the characters on the screen did. Of course, the idea was far-fetched and inconceivable. But Joe could dream. After all, the fictions he read told him of humans visiting the world all the time. He wanted to be those humans. He wanted to be that happy. He wanted to have those friends.

He wanted somebody to love him.

The latest episode ended with the reuniting of the main characters, including Pinkie Pie, who declared that she could not leave her best friends behind by any means. The names of the cast and crew of the program flashed across the screen. Joe wrapped his arms around the television and squeezed it, hugging the object like his dearest grandmother. It may have been, after all, the only thing he loved.

Joe remained situated before the television. A mix of blood and tears found its way onto it, and they hit the top of the box with faint little taps here and there. Joe was crying for the first time in a long time. He couldn’t stop himself. It came on like inclement weather and left him in tatters.

He knew Equestria was a long ways away. He knew it was impossible to reach. But he also knew that the boring tones of this earth, this basement, could not satiate his thirst for something more. This is why Joe dreamed. This is why he reached for the television screen, and why he stayed in this prison, in this den where the beast could snatch him up and spit him back out at will.

Hope.

So Joe continued to produce tears of hope while hugging the television. The show was over, and once again the light from the screen was the only thing illuminating the room. Fate had posited him in this despairing place. Being a young boy, powerless as he is, had become a grueling vocation rather than a positive mind-building experience. But that hope was still there, and it was streaming down his face.

Joe heard a clank sound from behind the television. He released the bulky box from his arms. Something then rolled its way out from under the television stand. It came to a stop before his knees, where Joe eyed it in curiosity. It was a light bulb. One that hadn’t been smashed. It was dusty and dirtied, but it looked as if it would light.

Joe reached down and picked it up. Light, a simple, extraordinary thing. Joe put a grand smile on his face, one that no one had ever seen him accomplish before. This light was a gift.

He grimaced as he brought himself to his feet. His journey was not yet over. Lamely, he limped over to the table, where he caught himself before he collapsed into the pile of shattered glass on the floor. He winced. Steadily, oh so steadily, he stood up straight. His body ached intensely, but it wasn’t done in yet.

He grabbed hold of the light fixture and carefully unscrewed the remainder of the broken light bulb. He tossed the remnants of it aside. Then, in what can be seen as a sensational achievement, he screwed the new one in. It immediately lit up the room, though it was grimy and covered in dust.

Success.

Joe looked about the room. He had not seen such beauty on Earth before. It was a miserable, low-key basement. But it was beautiful.

Joe looked to the far wall, where a crudely drawn moon was seen centered around a plethora of similarly drawn stars. He had hand drawn it when he was nine, and for whatever reason, his father had never erased it. Joe smiled. The moon reminded him of a character from the program, Princess Luna, for she was the one in charge of the night and the moon. Princess Luna held a special place in his heart. The character reminded him of his mother.

And so, Princess Luna had become a part of him.

The light warmed him. It burned a hole in the darkness of the basement. It revitalized him, soothed him. The light was Luna’s star on Earth, a perfectly timed gift to him in his moment of need.

Joe closed his eyes. He dreamed. He could see all of Luna’s stars. They were all there. He could see the moon in its grandeur, a inexplicably gargantuan structure set in the middle of those twinkling lights. Joe was floating. He was weightless, which relieved him greatly of his pains. His dizzied and restless mind had finally found an escape. Joe made his way to the moon by way of swimming. All he wanted was a drop of that moonlight. The blue tint around the edges of the moon were to be his to take. The scene was a dazzling display of bright holes in the dark, and the moon itself was a shimmering blue lantern floating listlessly in space. Joe’s smile had not disappeared since he had begun wearing it.

As he drew closer to the structure, he could see a small form loitering there on it. He squinted into the bright blue light, the glossy surface of the moon was too spectacular. At first, he had to rub his eyes in disbelief. It couldn’t be her. But it was. His eyes teared up. His heart beat quickly. He started to swim faster.

Princess Luna awaited him on the moon. Her smile was tender and endearing.

Joe touched down on the surface of the moon, a surreal experience that made him cry out in astonishment. He felt no pain as he jumped forward, bounded across the landscape with minimal effort. Luna was waiting for him.

Joe’s tears streamed down his face as he fled forward and crashed into Princess Luna. Luna happily returned the embrace, smiling sympathetically at the young boy before her.

“You are safe now,” Luna assured Joe. Joe collapsed upon thought of the news as an overwhelming wave of emotion consumed him. “We are here for you.”

Hope. Hope is something obtainable after all.

And a million miles away, a single light flickered on, a brilliant light in the darkness. It was a gift for Joe. It was a gift for everybody. The light stayed on, and would never be punched out, would never be used up, would never disappear. The light would stay on for eternity. And the light would burn with the intensity of Joe’s heart, for it was his star. His star smiled with the hope of something more. His star continued to pulsate, for as long as it was there, there was hope. As long as it was there, it was his heart.

Hope. Hope is something instilled in all of us.

And Joe smiled as his star lit up the darkness, shooing away the beasts and monstrosities that loomed in the shadows, dispersing them with the hope of that something more, whatever it may be.

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Church

Church #1 · Dec 4th, 2012 · · ·

I'd like to thank my fantastic superhero giraffe Future for looking this over. Well, for reading it, really, and telling me it was good.

Twifight Sparkill

Twifight Sparkill #2 · Dec 4th, 2012 · · ·

Sigh. You're far too reckless with these emotions you subject us to. I know... abuse. I know it well. This struck a few chords; the minors amidst the roars of percussive crashes, hum. Womderful story.

Sigh.

Mcayon

Mcayon #3 · Dec 4th, 2012 · · ·

Amazing so far, you will continue writing this, right?

Church

Church #4 · Dec 4th, 2012 · · ·

1737733 I'm sorry to hear this

And so I wrote the story. It was something that I felt should have been done. Nobody was going to read this, because of the tags and such. But I liked the way it came out, so I posted it.

I'm not sure how my dealing with real life issues impacts people. But I tend to do it constantly.

Anyway, I'm glad that you liked the story, Twifight, even if you're never to read it again. Don't worry; If nobody else, I love you

1738052 Actually, this was a one shot. I couldn't start up a new fic right now, 'cuz I have so many! Sorry, but thanks for catching the incomplete tag

Mcayon