Chapter 1
Weddings are usually very cheerful. Happiness abound, smiles in the air, so much pride – liquid or otherwise – that you could choke. That is, unless you are the ex-spouse.
Such was the case for Apple Cinnamon. The red mare with the green-and-yellow mane had bore the groom in question three healthy foals. One was a newborn baby, one was seven years old, and one was a strong ten going-on eleven. Apple Bloom, Applejack, and “Big” Apple Macintosh. Yet her husband had to leave her and her babies for that slut. That awful mare who had taken her husband away because to keep her façade as a high-society buissnessmare.
And to make things worse, Liberty Orange was her beloved Mosley Orange's cousin.
~~~
The wedding was finished. The groom's ex-brood was placed in the hooves of the caring elderly Granny Smith. All guests had left.
Well, except for one.
Apple Cinnamon was still in the cathedral, wallowing in whatever it is ponies are supposed to wallow in. “Why?” She asked herself, silently. “Why, why, why!”
Apple Cinnamon was what Canterlot psychiatrists might call "mentally unstable". Prone to delusions, extreme hallucinations, the works. But Apple Cinnamon knew nothing of this. She was blissfully ignorant.
Ignorance isn't always bliss.
In Apple Cinnamon's mind's eye, she had transformed into a hideous monster. She could feel her face elongating, her eyes beginning to lack shine, save for an unnatural heart-shaped shine in the top corner of her eye. She became taller and more leggy, and gained a horn, as well as a messy mane.
The horn was used to replace her face from its “untrue form” to its “true form”. The “untrue form” was levitated into a jar of formaldehyde. She could always magic the color back if needed. Levitating the jar to the door, she trotted over to the organ. In real life, it was an awful mess of notes, but in her mind's ear, it was a beautiful, sad song about loneliness, obsessiveness...
...And death.
~~~
“What a beautiful song, Cinnamon.”
It pained Minister Mothbest to compliment that awful screeching, but anything to lull her into a sense of security.
“No! Mosley! You can't see me like this! I'm a monster!”
Mosley? She must be addled in the brain. Oh well. Mothbest would have to play along.
“Oh, you are hideous! But I can and will love you again if you do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Could you pick up all of that rice for me?"
~~~
Scribble, scribble, scribble. Scribble down words quickly as to not forget them. Scribble first, write later. This was Minister Mothbest's philosophy on writing. In this case, he was writing after scribbling the greatest sermon known to ponykind.
Too bad it would never be performed, its words never entering the ears of a pony and touching them in ways most are nearly unable to comprehend.
Five days before the wedding, Minister Mothbeast stayed up all night perfecting that sermon, then tossing it into the fireplace. He sat there watching the flames curl around the paper, reducing it to nothing but ash.
He had poured his heart into that sermon. Now his sermon was black as night, easily dissolvable, like it never even existed.
And so was his heart.
~~~
Socks. Striped socks, plaid socks, paisley socks, polka dot socks. That would be all you could see in the Sock Room. Every sock looked different as could be, save one thing.
They all had holes.
Minister Mothbest collected socks with holes in them for the Sock Room. He figured the day would come when the time was right, all signs pointed to his ultimate goal, and he would do the correct thing with his sock army.
Darn them.
Hours upon hours upon hours of work were spent that night darning those socks, repairing them to factory condition. The needle was sharp, the thread was red, and the time was coming for him to suit his dreams.
“Five days, my sweet,” he whispered to the exceptionally sharp needle.
“Five days.”
~~~
Apple Cinnamon had finished picking up all the rice. Now Mosley would love her. Now he would care again.
“Oh, Mosley. Now will you love me again?”
“Yes. Now come here. I'd love to kiss you.”
“Wait, what are you doing with the needle? Mosley!”
And then Apple Cinnamon was no more.
~~~
Minister Mothbest felt truly guilty for what happened. He had no idea he was capable of murder. It just happened. His guilty conscience required him to do one thing.
Give her a proper burial.
Nobody would come to the funeral. The Apple family was under the impression she committed suicide because she wanted attention, and the public didn't really care for her one way or another.
So Mothbest chose a quiet area in the forest and said a few words of remembrance to Apple Cinnamon.
“She was quite lonely, she was mentally unstable, as stubborn as a mule. She thought she was a foul monster, yet she was quite pretty. Average, but pretty, if you like red. ”
“Goodbye, sweet Apple Cinnamon.”
Walking away from the tombstone, Mothbest went to tell the Apple Family the truth, muttering under his breath,
“No one was saved.”