I looked at the small box held in my hands. It was quite heavy, really, after being carried all this way through the rain.
"Won't be long now, little one," I said, gently. The mewling sounds carried on, along with scuffling and kicking. She was hurt, that much I could tell. She was a very, very special little equine-shaped creature. I had found her a half-hour ago, wailing piteously in the alley, trapped in a cardboard box. Where she had come from, I didn't know. Who she belonged to, I had no idea. I guess now she was mine.
Wings, hooves - a pegasus, it seemed. Her coat was blue, but her mane and tail - oh, they were gorgeous! Even though they were dishevelled, the light in her eyes and the firey temperament endeared her to me.
She had held one hoof out, unwilling to let me near it, unable to put weight on it. This, this alone, this pain she was in, led me to risk a trip to the vets.
"And what do we have here then? Oh my! A little... horse? No, a pony!"
"Yes ma'am, I... can you keep this a secret? I mean, she's hurt an' all, and I need you to help her - you can help her, can't you?" I asked the vet. The vet was an older lady, a thin pair of spectacles on the bridge of her nose. She looked down at the weakly mewling blue lump held in my shaking hands.
"Oh my deary me, yes, I can help her. I won't be a minute."
I smiled happily, stroking the little creature's mane softly, crooning to her. The vet returned, with a hypodermic.
"It... it won't hurt, will it?" I asked.
The vet shook her head, "No, no, not at all." The needle was jabbed in to the scruff of the little blue creature's neck. She yowled, and fussed, I soothed her.
"There, there love, it didn't hurt, did it? Not really, huh?" I looked back up at the vet, "Now what?"
"Now we wait."
"What for, will her leg stop hurting? Then you'll put a cast on it?"
"Cast?" The vet shook her head, "No, no, an animal like that, with a broken leg? I've put her down, love. She'll pass away peacefully, she won't be in any pain. See? She's already falling asleep."
I looked down in horror at the lump, she had stopped shivering, and seemed to be wavering to and fro. She suddenly slumped, her eyes closing. She hiccuped once, breathed in a shallow breath... and went still.
On the bright side though, I wouldn't need to pick up anything for dinner.
Squeak, squeak, squeak, went the little wheels of the small wooden trolley. It was a smooth, rectangular polished board made of oak, with four little wheels set into axles. At one end was attached a clean, white rope, lovingly tied through a neatly drilled hole. I held the end of the rope in my hand as I moved slowly down the sidewalk.
I didn’t want to pull her very quickly, my little Dashie. She was there, on the board, her wings neatly folded at her sides, blue and lovely as ever. I had asked him to put them that way, and use the finest wires and stuffing inside, so that she would seem calm and safe and relaxed as she stood on the trolley.
The taxidermist had done his best, and she looked more alive now than when I had first found her, the dear little thing, inside that cardboard box. I wiped a tear from my eye, as I walked, my little Dashie trundling after. It was our daily ritual, our daily walk.
I think she really liked it, to be out in the open air. I tried to show her glass eyes the best views. Sometimes I like to pause and lift her up, and hold her so that she can see the sky. I point her eyes at the clouds, so that she can see them. I know she loves the big, white, fluffy ones the best.
We reach the park, Dashie and I. We move onto the thick, green grass so carefully, so that the little cart does not tip over. One time it did, for I was pulling her with such excitement, ready to show her all the wonders of the world, and she had come unattached from her little trolley, the tiny nails sticking up, little bits of fluff and stuffing still clinging to them. But the taxidermist fixed her. He always fixes her. Unlike that veterinarian.
At the park, I talk to her, and explain all the wonderful things, in case her glass eyes cannot see far enough. I hold my little blue pegasus, and rock her in my arms. Sometimes it is too much, and I begin to cry. I want her to move, to leap up and fly around, but she is still, nailed to her trolley.
I cannot help myself. I pick some long, tasty-looking grass from the lawn of the park, and hold it to her mouth. Here, little Dashie, some lovely grass. The tears stream down my cheeks. Please, my little love, my little pony, maybe the grass will help you. Maybe the grass will make you strong again.
Then I am sobbing in the grass, but Dashie is so brave for me. She just stands there, her wings at her side, waiting. She always waits for me. She is so much stronger than I am. Her eyes always look upon me with kindness, always being strong for me. My Dashie, my little blue pegasus.
Maybe some flowers would be better. I pick the best dandelions I can find, succulent and golden yellow, and press them to her insensate muzzle. I keep pushing them into her mouth, but it does not open, the stitches tight and strong. Please Dashie, oh god, please, just eat. Eat for me. I want her to grow strong so much.
Blinded by tears, I pull the little trolley, with my Dashie, my darling Dashie, over to where happy children play, with their little dog. Friends! That is what my little Dashie needs, friends to cheer her, to give her a reason to come back to me. Loving children, and their cute little doggie. That will surely help her.
I am stumbling now, the tears raining down my face, my mouth agape in sorrow. My little Dashie, oh my best friend, she trundles after me, always standing proud. The children don’t understand my crying. How could they. They can’t know the sorrow I felt when the vet injected my sweet blue friend and her eyes closed as she gasped her last farewell.
The dog is barking, poor little thing. It must be frightened by the rolling, squeeking sound of the wheels of the little cart that Dashie stands upon. I stop my approach, as the children run off, I don’t know why. But their dog remains, barking. How loyal, I think, loyal like my darling Dashie, standing there growling and barking, its ears low, trying to protect the children now long since fled.
As I stop, the cart has hit a bump in the grass, and my little Dashie topples over, to land on her side in the grass. Before I can reach down to lift her up and carefully, lovingly straighten her feathers and smooth her coat the dog is upon her, worrying her like a bone.
My tears burst forth, a broken dam of emotion as bright, robin’s-egg-blue feathers fly up into the air, and the stuffing pops out from the torn seams. The little doggie is running now. my Dashie’s head in it’s jaws, the lawn covered in a white snow of kapok and cotton.
I bend down to pick up a single, glass eye, and a small blue feather.
I hold the feather high, above my head, and let the wind catch it.
I cried softly to myself, my little blue darling was once more in one piece, but it wasn't enough. She'd lost most of one wing, and her eyes had been sewn shut, as had her muzzle. I had tried to make sure she was presentable, but it wasn't enough. I retired to the bed for the night, cradling her hopefully, but tears streamed down my face.
At night was when the nightmares came.
I wanted so much to let brave Dashie be well again, but... I couldn't. Her skeleton had been broken, so I had had it powdered and poured back in like sand. I had made her a replacement wing, but without her perfect blue feathers it had been misshapen and less than lovely... and she hated me for it. I hated me for it. There was only one thing I could do.
The voices would come in the dark, when the world was still. The voices would whisper in my ears, "Why did you do this... why did you make her world pain..."
"NO! GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!" I cried, hugging the small blue mishapen lump closer to my body.
"You broke her, you took her body and broke her..."
"I'M SORRY!" I wailed, but it did no good. Dashie had been spoiled, tarnished. I could not be forgiven.
"You must atone," the voices said, "you must give of yourself to set her free..."
I awoke with a start, in the dark hours of the morning, my soul burning with despair. I would make it up to Dashie, I had to. "It won't be long, Dashie, then... then we can be together, right?"
The little blue pegasus lump didn't say much, but it seemed she didn't have to. With tears I moved into the kitchen. As a conscientious room-mate, I decided to make sure that my passing was as easy as possible. The floor was that ancient sort of linoleum that curled up at the corners, old and blotched with mould. I set her down in front of me, and fetched a butter knife from the drawer.
I removed my t-shirt, I wouldn't be needing it any more. I set Dash up before me, watching with sightless cloth eyes where her glass ones had been ripped from her body by the dog. She would fly again, she would!
"If only," I cried to myself, "I could have sent you home somehow, through some sort of portal to wherever you came from. If only I could have gone with you. The world would have been so wonderful if I'd just been able to see you grow up and go home in one piece, but instead..." I broke down. "Forgive me, my wonderful little Dashie, and I beg you do the honour of witnessing my final act."
I bowed my head, picked up the butter knife, and jammed it into my stomach. I screamed in pain, tears rolling down my cheeks, as I forcefully ripped the dull culinary instrument from left to right.
As the crimson flow painted the floor, I realised I had failed to commit seppukku properly, and would now need to cut my own throat with the butter knife. As I set to the grisly task, life-blood seeping onto the cold, hard floor, I bemoaned the fact I'd not chosen the bread knife. This day could hardly get any worse.
***
The police report was short. Odd, but short. The subject was male, approximately 21, and had been found dead of apparent suicide by butter knife. Superintendent Harry Kiri was in trouble, however. The knife they had, the body, they had, but there was one piece of evidence missing. A strange blue creature, apparently a stuffed animal of some kind, had been found on the floor covered in the blood of the victim and perpetrator. It had been put in a box and shipped off for forensics, but it had never arrived.
"Now where," Harry said to himself as he slurped his coffee, "could it have gone to?"
