I Promise...
I have my friends.
My friends have me.
They are there for me; they will always be there for me.
They promised.
I am there for them; I will always be there for them.
I promised.
The hard-packed dirt underneath my hooves comforts me.
The earth is my home.
I walk to the first of my friend’s houses.
She’s not there.
Her joyful laughter is silent; the sound of her laughter isn’t filling the air like it should.
She must be out.
She always seems to be out now.
She is out cheering up other ponies.
I wish she… No. I’m fine. I’m always fine.
I promise.
The town is alive and well; I blend into the crowd with ease. Ponies are everywhere, crowding me, closing in on me, everywhere I look. Noise, noise… noise! They are shouting at me; they hate me. They tell me I should have done something. They are suffocating me; I can’t breathe. The urgent need to flee is rising. I need to get away!
My eyes slowly close; my eyes slowly open.
The town is deserted; night has fallen long ago.
My breath leaves my lungs in a shaky rush, but I don’t remember holding it. My sweating coat feels clammy in the night air as I walk to my next destination.
It’s not far away, but it feels like miles.
The sounds of running machines echoes hollowly from the inside of the brightly lit building.
Or maybe it doesn’t echo at all.
Maybe the lights are off.
Maybe they will always be off.
No, she must be out. Busy. She’s always busy making herself perfect. I should wait for her, but I have other ponies I must visit.
I look up into the sky. The night is completely clear. The moon shines brightly out of the perfect sky. The stars are in their perfect places, arranged to form a beautiful display of constellations.
There isn’t a cloud in the sky.
Not one.
There are no rainbow fountains flowing; there is no house.
She must have moved it.
She is probably sleeping in a tree; she likes that.
I’ll find her later.
I promise.
Walking, ever walking. Always walking, searching. My bones grow tired, my muscles weak.
I’ll rest when I find them. They need to see me; I need to see them. I need to be there for them; I need them to be there for me.
The tree. The library. My friend must be home.
The lights are off; the door bounces open and shut in the light wind.
The door is unlocked so I let myself in. If she didn’t want visitors, then the door would be locked, right?
The library is exactly as I remember.
Dusty. Disorganized. Disrepaired.
She would never let it stay like this. I walk up the stairs, for I must wake her; the steps are old, and they groan weakly in protest as I apply pressure to them.
Her bedroom is empty; his basket is gone.
She must be with the princess, or—
No.
She is with the princess, but she will be back soon.
I slowly trudge down the stairs.
My eyes blur, and I stumble. Water pools in the corners of my eyes.
It’s only the dust.
Just the dust.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Just dust in the wind.
I promise.
My leg creak as I straighten them. I regain my footing. Ignoring the dust, I leave the library and close the door behind me, latching it for the night.
I walk.
And walk.
I follow the winding path. The dirt is hard, so hard. The slight incline feels like a mountain. It makes me want to stop and rest, but I must visit her.
I look up; I see her house.
The animals chirp; the birds sing; the lights are on; her quiet humming reaches my ears.
Nopony is home.
She’s in the forest, tending to the animals. Of course she is.
She has to be.
I slowly turn around, my head hanging low. Leaving the house behind me, I don’t look back. I don’t look at the broken windows, the holes in the wall, the caved in roof. I don’t.
Walking.
I don’t look at the library either. I don’t see the state of disrepair, the lack of use. I don’t look, I promise.
So tired.
And I definitely don’t look at the beautiful sky; I don’t look for the cloud house that isn’t there—that hasn’t been there. I would never look.
But I’m fine.
The abandoned shop doesn’t even make me blink. I don’t even see it. I don’t see the boarded up windows, the boarded shut door.
The knife in my chest doesn’t hurt.
The store that isn’t happy anymore. I don’t look at it. I can’t look at it. So I don’t.
I promise. I don’t look.
They aren’t home, none of them are.
But they will be soon.
I promise.
Every step is a struggle; I’m so tired now; my bed calls to me with the voice of an angel.
The trip home is so long, so tiring, so painful.
The spotless door to my perfect house is flawless, not a single blemish on it.
It falls off its rusty hinges as I push on it.
It shatters upon hitting the ground.
Shattered, broken.
But not like me; I’m fine
I’ll fix it in the morning.
I promise.
My stairs creak even more than my joints do.
The door handle to my room is worn from countless years of use. I step inside my room and walk over to my cracked mirror.
It’s cracked, broken.
But I’m fine.
I promise.
I trace the lines in the mirror with my eyes.
I follow the lines with my hoof.
A sharp pinch comes from my hoof. A bead of red forms, and it drips down my leg.
I focus my gaze on the pony in the mirror.
The haggard face that stares back at me is not my own. Her eyes are bloodshot; her face is scarred; her eyes are tired; her hat lies in tatters atop her head.
I watch a tear leak out of the pony’s eye after she sees a picture of her smiling friends tucked in the corner of the mirror.
A daring stunt master who died in a poorly conceived trick; it was horrible, her body was utterly destroyed. The pony in the mirror can still feel the blood on her face; she was there to watch her. She tried to convince her to not go through with it.
A studious librarian, been missing for years; some say it was a misfired spell, others don’t. The pony in the mirror may never know.
A shy caretaker who disappeared into the forest on a dark night; only her skull was found weeks later. Her body was scattered across the forest; her flesh fed the creatures she adored.
A stunning fashionista, she simply died from a heart attack; the doctors pronounced her dead on arrival. There was nothing anypony could have done.
A happy, joyful partier, sent on a diplomatic mission to a foreign country. Nopony knows what happened to her, but at least she died in the arms of a beloved. Probably. The pony in the mirror can only hope so.
And she is there too, the pony in the mirror. She’s so happy there; her friends surround her.
But those are her friends, not mine. The mare in the mirror is sad, but not me.
I’m fine; I’m always fine.
You can trust me; I’m fine.
I promise.
And I always tell the truth.
“Cross my heart... and hope to fly…. Stick a cupcake… in my—”
The pony in the mirror can’t stop crying; tears pour down her face, matting her fur.
My eyes blur; I lose sight of her.
But I’m fine.
It’s just the dust.
I promise.
I wipe my eyes; the pony in the mirror comes back into view.
She reaches for a small knife.
It’s sharp; she misses the handle and grabs the blade.
Her hoof is bloody; but not mine.
She picks up the knife and holds it up to her neck.
But not me, I would never do that.
She digs the point in, blood welling, forming, dripping.
She drags the knife across her neck, slicing a thin line.
But not me, I would never do that.
She does it again, but in a different spot; this cut is deeper.
I look away as she does it a third time, this time cutting her cheek.
A fourth.
A fifth.
I look down to see my chest covered in a thick coat of sticky, wet blood.
The pony in the mirror did this.
She is sad, but I’m not.
I would never do that.
I promise.
I walk to my bathroom to bandage my neck; I leave the knife on the table.
The pony in the mirror is there too.
I can’t escape from her.
I wash the blood away.
Down…
Down…
Down…
Neverending spirals of darkness and red.
I exit the shower.
I leave the water running because I can’t turn it off; my hooves are too weak, too shaky.
It always runs.
The sound of waste, of want.
The sound comforts me.
I promise.
I stare at the pony in the mirror as I wrap my wounds in cloth bandages.
I hate her.
I promise.
She wants the knife.
I hate her.
I promise.
She wants this to end.
I hate her.
I promise.
I am not her; she is not me.
I promise.
I promise.
She is sad, but I’m fine.
I promise.
My face freshly bandaged, I walk back to my room.
I answer the call of my bed.
I fall asleep.
I promise.
I don’t stay awake; I don’t stare at the knife.
I don’t stare at the pony in the mirror; she doesn’t stare at me.
I promise.
I’m waiting for my friends; I’ll wait as long as it takes.
I’m the Element of Honesty.
You can trust me.
I’m fine.
I promise.