G.N.D: A My Little Dashie Sequel

by Nibrudly

A Push in the Right Direction

I feel the sleep slip from my eyes as the harsh light of morning hits my face. As I squint to block it out, I pull myself up out of my horizontal position. I look about my living room, still unused to the recent change of scenery. I spend several minutes just staring at the blank walls where numerous portraits of my daughter and I used to hang until recently. My eyes then turn to the floor, clean and spotless; no knick-knacks, racing magazines or dumbbells cluttered about the carpet. I take notice of the couch, firm leather and a solid frame instead of worn cloth and a few missing legs. The only thing remotely familiar to me is my dad’s old recliner, albeit in much better condition than it was just a few days ago. Slowly, I finally get up off my ass and head to the kitchen for some much needed coffee. After the rejuvenating bitter, black liquid restores some control over my mental faculties, I sit at the table and just stare at my mug, replaying not only the events that transpired a few days ago, but also everything that has happened to me in the past fifteen years.

It’s been three days since they came for her. Three days since I said goodbye. Three days since she went back to her regular life. I knew that it’d be hard not having her here, but I didn’t think it’d come back to bite me in the ass like it is now. These past few days, all I’ve done is just roam about the house, replaying in my head those fifteen years we spent together. It’s like I’m in a haze and I can’t comprehend my surroundings. My routine has been to wake up, get that caffeine in my system, and then spend the whole day reminiscing. I’ve taken three sick days already; I’m not sure what my manager would think if I took a fourth.

I know I have to move on, I know she’s where she’s supposed to be…but I just can’t seem to get out of this rut. And so I walk down Memory Lane once again. I remember finding her in that cardboard box. I remember waking up the next morning to find her cuddling up next to me on the couch. I remember taking her to the park as she learned to fly. I remember making that first cake together the day she got her cutie mark. I remember later that night when she said “I love you, daddy,” and it all finally clicked. I remember all the Sunday afternoons watching NASCAR, cheering with her as the cars raced around the track. I remember the evenings sitting on the porch with her leaning against me as we watched the sun set. I remember the day when it all fell apart; when she finally saw the show and learned the truth. I remember spending those three days worrying about her and chastising myself for being so stupid. I remember that walk in the woods and how she came back, and we cried together under the large tree. And now I come to the most recent, and the hardest, memory of all.

I hear the knock at the door. Why did I answer it? I hear that voice, so soothing, yet powerful; so friendly, yet ominous. Stop this. You need to stop. I open the door and see Princess Celestia, along with the rest of the Mane Six, come to do what had to be done; the very thing I had been dreading the moment I brought Dashie through my door. Why didn’t I do anything?! That afternoon seemingly stretching on forever, trying so desperately to stop it, go against what I knew was inevitable and keep my daughter with me. Having to constantly remind myself this had to happen; it was always going to happen. You have to move on. Dashie coming down the stairs with her box of prized possessions. Why?! Why did they have to come now?! That one last hug, feeling her tears roll down my neck before she was whisked away. Dashie. My precious, little Dashie. The growing panic as I realized all evidence that proved Dashie had existed was erased and replaced with generic crap. And then I remember my relief when I saw my old album sitting on the coffee table, and the tears that flowed down my face as I looked at the contents.

With this new train of thought I wander back into the living room, the album sitting perfectly in the center of the coffee table. I open it for what must be the hundredth time in these last three days. The first few pages are filled with pictures from when my parents were still alive; all that color and the smiles on our faces. Then I turn a couple pages and see all the generic photos I slipped in; just to suspend that illusion of happiness. But just a few flips more and I come to a little cyan filly, her wide smile pointed towards the camera. I spend the next several hours reminiscing as I look at the rest of our memories. Eventually I hit a patch of blank pages, where more pictures would have been catalogued. I flip through this bit quickly so I can reach the end, where I keep my greatest treasure.

It’s interesting just how important a piece of paper marked with several lines of patterned graphite can hold so much value. Of course, that’s only when you are thinking materially; when you’re in a position like mine it’s the sentimentality that really makes it valuable. This could be a greasy napkin with crayon and I’d still treasure it like a diamond. What I hold in my hands is the very last words from my daughter. Not only are they words of love, but for me they are words of hope. It’s the hope that I can eventually move on and live life again; but I don’t see that happening anytime soon, not while I’m like this. I finally start reading, going back to the top and beginning again when I reach the bottom. I continue to re-read her letter until the sun sinks lower into the horizon and becomes a warm orange, its unappreciated splendor shining on my face.

I put the letter back into the album, being careful not to dog ear or accidentally rip it. I wander into the kitchen, the relatively stocked shelves staring back at me. I know I’m hungry just because common sense tells me I am, but I don’t feel hungry. I don’t feel anything. You wouldn’t think you could actually feel nothing, but you can. And it is a feeling I would not wish on my worst enemy. It’s like there’s this black hole just gorging itself on my emotions and fatigue. I need to clear my head, get some fresh air into my lungs. I need to take a walk.

It’s funny; the last time I took a walk, Dashie was gone. Then I found her and things got better. Maybe this time it will happen again. Heh, if only. I put my shoes on and grab my jacket before heading out the door. I spend several minutes just standing on my porch gazing at the sunset. It really is beautiful, but like all good things I know it’s going to come to an end; the warm orange glow will dissolve into a depressing blue. I start walking on the beaten path, casting a glance at our large lawn. I take note that the grass is several inches taller than it should be.

“If she was here, she would have mowed it all in ten minutes flat.”

I’m surprised; I haven’t said a word these past three days. That has to be progress, right? I continue my walk, breathing in the crisp evening air as the sun continues to fall. As I walk, I feel the tiniest fraction of my sorrow leave as the natural beauty that surrounds me takes my mind off my current situation; if only for a short moment. Eventually I reach the small meadow that lies a few yards away from the tree line of the forest. I look up at the sky to see how much light I have left. Not enough for a full trek through the woods, but enough to at least make it to the Tree.

As I walk through the forest, despite the multiple trees of various kinds that fill my vision, I very easily pick out the Tree. Its trunk is so large and thick; the huge canopy of leaves creates an almost perfect shelter from the elements. It was the tree that to me looked like the perfect place for an angry Pegasus Pony to sit out a storm. I walk over to it and sit down. I put my head back against the rough bark and close my eyes; I take a long inhale, soaking up that natural aroma therapy of the forest. The dry pine needles on the forest floor; the soft and yet repugnant scent of the flowers that grow along the edges of the trail; the bark of numerous trees each adding its own smell to the overall perfume. I’m not sure if I’m just imaging all this, but it all smells so green; so fertile; so…alive. My mind goes back to that day, the last time I took a walk like this, the day the storm hit.

It had been three days since Dashie ran away. I was walking through the woods (not particularly thinking I’d find her, but hoping just the same) and I decided to get out of the rain. I noticed the Tree, its simple majesty and how it just seemed to be what looked like the perfect shelter for anyone, or anypony, that may have need of its services. So I sat down, letting the thick canopy of leaves keep me from getting completely soaked. I just stared at all the foliage in front of me, trying to get my thoughts in order. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid, I should have told her sooner. Now she was gone…maybe she wasn’t going to come back. In that moment, as I sat there listening to the rain and staring off into space, with no knowledge of whether I’d see her again, I did the only thing I could think of.

“I’m so sorry! I’m just so sorry...” Dashie.

My eyes shoot open. I’m not in the rain anymore, I’m back in the present; watching the last traces of orange fade into the purple nighttime sky. The words left my mouth before I knew what was going on. At this point-to use that old meme-my heart explodes; even more than it did only a few days ago. I put my head between my knees as the tears start to roll down my cheeks. How can I keep going on like this? How can I ever move on with my life with this weight in my heart? How can I possibly live without her? How can I possibly move on? But then a part of me asks, “How can I not?” I told myself I would live my life. Not just for me, but for her. Why can’t I accept the fact that she’s gone and start getting my life back?

Amidst my rampant emotions and my tears, I search for an island in this sea of confusion. I go back to that wonderful night: the night after she performed an actual Sonic Rainboom; the night we made that awful cake, but ate it anyway. The night I heard those words that solidly convinced me she was my daughter and I was her father.

“Goodnight daddy. I love you.”

Under that tree in the woods, my body quivering, I whisper,

“Goodnight, my little Dashie. I love you too.”

I wasn’t ready. I’ll never be ready to say goodbye. I can’t believe I was so naïve as to think I could get over Dashie. How can I possibly start moving on with this weight in my heart? What’s the point in life anymore? Why should I keep going?

Because she’d want you to.

Of course I’d think that. That’s the only reason I’d even attempt to pull myself together right now. I don’t want to listen; I just want to lay here and die. Anything is better than this pain in my heart.

Get off your ass and go inside.

I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t matter where I am; I’m still going to be a wreck. What does it matter whether I’m in the fetal position on the carpet or in the dirt? I just want the pain to go away.

Get off your ass. Go inside.

Screw it, I’m done. I’m done trying to convince myself everything will turn up rosy. Nothing is going to take this pain away; I’m going to be stuck with it forever.

What did she ever see in you?

This new thought stings. But it has a point. If Dashie saw me now, I would never live it down. I’m supposed to be strong for her and look where I am! Why can’t I move on?! Why can’t I find the strength in myself?! Why can’t I do it?!

Who said you have to be strong?

And there it is. I don’t have to be all sunshine and rainbows. I just have to continue to exist. If not for me, then at least so Dashie can still have some pride in her pops.

I wipe my nose on my sleeve and pick myself up off the ground, my body continuing to heave as I take sporadic gasps. I start walking back towards the house; tears still running down my face. I’m nowhere near emotional or psychological stability, and I don’t plan on being there anytime soon. But I have to push myself on, if only by taking it one day at a time. I don’t want to do it, but I have to. For Dashie.

Comments

[CanterlotGuardian]

...this is probably the single most under-appreciated story on this site

[Divine Path]

Two things:
1) Glad to see you writing at last.
2) Also liking the type you chose.
I'm looking forward to seeing what your take on it will show us.
I shall read on.

[Princess Celestia 13]

[Princess Celestia 13]