Battery Acid
Sweetie Belle’s mother had a name. She also had a face and pants and ambitions of some kind and a corporal existence that spilled out peacefully and unevenly as slow waves during low tide.
None of these are visible as she knocks on her daughter’s door.
“Honey, are you awake yet?”
“No,” the unicorn replies from under her covers. Normally this ritual would be repeated five times each day, today it would be repeated seven. No reason, but it seems like the thing to do at the time.
On the pink carpet beneath her bed rests a notebook decorated with flowers, hearts and other heart-breakingly trite analogue’s of juvenile thought. Three pages have something written on them, the first,
One very boring day in a very boring town where cookie cutter creations walked from one end of the street to the other and back again ...
The second page bears the image of a hugely fat pony wearing a red coat, and the third, more mercurial, to come in its own good time. There’s no reason for this either, but the filly thought it sounded like a good idea once.
Sweetie Belle’s classmates had names. Some of them had cutie marks, which was a source of angst for her when she needed it, and others had hobbies, which were a source of unity when that was needed. None of them were visible from inside the classroom where the unicorn filly sat behind a desk covered in cards and small packages. It was not her birthday, she’d just told everyone it was.
The yellow one with the wings, Brundlefly or something, had given her a pet bird. The avian entity, just on the approachable side of majestic, stared at her with a glinting, grey-blue silver eye. Perhaps it should seem unusual for a childless adult to visit a public school or take an interest in the life of a strange child, but it wasn’t really Sweetie’s birthday so she didn’t feel she had a right to complain.
The bird turns toward her one grey-blue silver eye, half-blind and prized open.
“You should not expect things of other ponies.”
Sweetie has grown use to the steady uncertainty of her surroundings, and so only mutters back, “I didn’t expect you to talk.”
“There’s the spirit,” the bird sings, puffing its feathers.
It would seem strange, but it wasn’t really Sweetie's birthday. The circumstances she created made this situation more difficult than it had to be, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.
The ringing of the bell drags the other foals back into the classroom. Applebloom has lost her bow, and with it a point of symmetry to the past. They stare at each other; purported acquaintances exchange simple greetings.
Without the gentle weight of the bow, Sweetie can feel the heaviness of the past tugging the scales backward. The present, now a hair to light, levitates in thrumming momentum. A pulse of "not really me" starts just beneath her mane.
A pony is an object in the world
Cheerilee’s lessons have been getting abstract of late. She is probably bored. Or sniffing battery acid, enjoying the caustic hate burn of chemicals in her nostrils. It was a good way to avoid the smells of the surrounding fauna, a good way to pass the time, as good a use of oneself as any other.
Ah, well.
A fish is poisson
Poison, like the metal box that Cheerilee thought she had hidden well under the desk, a crazy straw sticking out of it. She leans over, taking what obviously seemed to her a discrete sip. The slurping and gargling fills the class but no one says anything.
It isn’t polite to stare
That one was on the board yesterday. Sweetie Belle can’t complain too much. It isn’t really her birthday, but she was allowed to bring a bird into class.
The bird sits on the edge of her desk, patiently waiting with blind eyes. It’s beak clicks nervously, it’s feathers spread and retract. Each tiny movement of its head so fast it seems to skip frames.
It is a petty distraction, but it seems to do at the time.
First thing upon waking, she hears the words as if they have always been in her head, “silently and insalubrious, the serpents arise in twisting mass, seeking each their end and destiny to writhe beneath the sun.”
Normally, this thought would be repeated six times each day, today it will be repeated six. No reason, but it seems like a thing to do at the time.
A concealed hoof knocks on the door, heralding the arrival of a voice. There is a name to be attached to the voice, and an identity as well, but none of these are visible through the pink wood.
“Honey, are you awake yet?”
“No.”
Normally this ritual would be repeated five times each day, today it will be repeated four. No reason, but it seems like the thing to do at the time.
Instead of being awake, the pony watches the door. Why is the door pink? No, better to start with the pink walls. No, better to start with the pink carpet. No, better to start with the pink dresser. No, better to start with ...
Everything is pink. It is like being inside a mouth, and one day she will be swallowed like so much fluffy candy.
“You should not expect things of a pink mouth,” the bird interrupts her thoughts.
She turns her head, looking up at the grey, blue silver eyes.
“It isn’t really a mouth, it just looks like one.”
The bird stops, as if perplexed by the contradiction. Uncertain which way to take things, it falls into the steady routine.
“You should not expect things.”
“I don’t.”
Now the bird not only stops but rocks, its beak hanging part way open and distress clearly presenting in the way its wings won’t stop twitching.
“I did not expect this conversation.”
“You probably shouldn’t have.”
The bird was pretty, or it seemed at the time.
The dinner table is a good place for childhood trauma. There are pointy objects all over the place, and your mother and father are there. Potential conflict, whether inter-generational or gender-based. Sometimes, there are belts and they are removed. The dinner table is located in the kitchen, and the side door connects both to the outside world. There can be conflict between domesticity and externals, and all it takes is someone knocking on the door at the wrong time.
Sometimes, living things just stop doing that, or they continue doing it but in a reduced fashion. Any of these events can happen in a kitchen, because of the pointy things and the potential of the outside world.
Instead of accomplishing any of these things, the unicorn filly just eats her fill of grass and leaves.
The bird should probably have said something, but it didn’t.
Birds don’t talk. They only seem to.
Laying in bed, Sweetie wonders if it is a bad thing to sleep twelve hours a day, or is life not limited by age but by time spent conscious?
Applebloom’s granny sleeps a lot, and she’s the oldest thing anyone in town knows. Maybe sleeping helps extend life? If, say, a unicorn filly were removed from the regular conscious world perpetually by an accident or a spell. If she just fell into a dream, could she remain there forever?
The unicorn starts to feel uncomfortable as she contemplates the idea of a measured jar. Little notches are down the side of it marking how many cups of Sweetie Belle remain. The little jar tips over, spilling out some and it is spread across bread so sticky and sweet.
She shifts under her blanket, feeling the idea get worse. Red and smeared out, stretched too thin. Too moist. Lumps in the red, and little white or yellow flecks of butter, and all of it smeared out across the rough crust.
She continues feeling uncomfortable until she remembers her homework.
A pony is an object in the world.
Outside, in the world filled with objects, a tree is sighing with the wind and wondering aloud what the point of dropping apples on its toes is.
“You shouldn’t expect things of yourself.”
“No one does.”
The tree is blind, and it cannot see the apples and seeds being spirited away. It cannot see the fate of its offspring, given away freely just to release the ache in its root.
“You shouldn’t expect things of a bird.”
“No one does.”
“You shouldn’t.” The bird looms predatory as its single grey-blue silver eye stares. The muscles around it twitch wildly, veins convulsing.
“I won’t.”
The bird has accomplished its task but it won’t leave. Maybe it doesn’t know how to? Maybe there is a jar marked “Bird” and it still has just a little bit left in it, and someone is shaking it as hard as they can, but nothing is coming out.
Sweetie Belle’s mother wears pants to hide her Cesarean scars. She used to be a model. The pants help hide her cutie mark. Her daughter once promised to make her a beautiful dress, but things always come up in between here and there.
Her disappointment is not visible through the door, but there is no one to watch the door now. Just a message scrawled on the third page of a notebook.
Time for a few small repairs. Love you when I get back.