1 Where The Brambles Are Thickest
Thanks to Cirrus Tail for pointing out some errors.
You glance around, watching, waiting. Look at the people, at their nice new clothes, their shoes without any holes, their skin with meat instead of bone. Look at them, watch them, 'cause they're better then you are, boyo. They have chances, hope, all that jazz. That's far more than what you got.
You shiver against the wind, whipping your sweaty palms against your tattered jeans. Are they looking at you? Do they know? You stand there, your heart racing, your breath little clouds, smoke signals screaming to rat you out. Any minute now someone's going to notice you and call you out. It's happened before. But it ain't your fault, boyo, no. It really ain't. No matter how hard you try, you'll always look shady. Starvation and desperation does that. The rags you call clothes help, too.
You finally spot your target amongst the busy sidewalk. He's an old man arguing with a vendor, balancing a bag of food on his hip. Pushing your way through the crowd, earning many swears and looks, you get into position. Then you walk forward, your shoulder bumping the old man, knocking his bag to the ground, it busting and spilling. You pause and stare at it in horror before scrambling to pick up the contents.
"I-I'm sorry, s-sir." You stutter, your hands shake.
He doesn't even bend to help you, and neither does anyone else for that matter. They walk on, not caring. You sigh as you gather everything up. Doesn't anyone care about someone besides themselves?
Once you have everything gathered, you pull a plastic bag from your pocket, earning you an odd look from the man, but no objections. Rising, you hand the bag to him. He takes it. No thank you, nothing. But you've come to expect that from people. You expect a lot, but nothing good.
As he turns back to the vendor, you walk away, slow at first but you pick up speed. You turn a corner and take off running. Don't want him noticing before you get far enough away, do you?
You come to a stop several blocks and turns away. Sliding into an alley, you hide in the shadows to regain your breath and look over your gains. A can of vienna sausages, bottle of meds, and the old man's wallet. You sigh, trying to purge yourself of the guilt, and that worries you 'cause it's become too easy to do that nowadays. But not completely easy, 'cause there is still that little part that hates picking the pockets of old men, ain't there, boyo?
A tiny part that gets smaller the longer your hunger stays.
Slipping the can of sausages into the pocket of your thin grey jacket, you take a look at the meds. Eszopiclone. You could probably sell them so you slip the bottle in next to the can. Now you turn your attention to the wallet.
It's a soft leather bill fold, cracked with age and use. Inside there are many receipts and business cards, but you don't care about those. They're not what you are after. Digging through the many slips of paper, you find the cash – a few crumpled twenties and a hundred, handful of singles as well. You sigh with relief, 'cause you know that was more than what you expected.
Stuffing the bills into your pockets, you go to toss the wallet aside when you notice something. Amongst the receipts and cards there is a photo. Just one. You slip it out and your hand shakes, something catches in your throat. It's the man, younger now, a little girl sitting on his shoulders. It looks like they're laughing, like they're the happiest two in the world. You want to crumple up the photo, toss it to the side and make those happy faces disappear, but you can't.
Why? Why are they so happy when you're stuck like this? The more you look at it, the more real it seems. It's like it's not a photo anymore, but a movie you're holding.
The girl laughs, swaying on her father's shoulders. "Papa! Stop moving! I'm gonna fall!"
The man looks up at his daughter, his pride. "Don't worry," he says, "I will never let you fall." This makes the girl giggle some more. "Plus," he adds, "I wouldn't move so much if you didn't squirm like you had ants in your pants."
"That's silly, Papa. You're silly."
She looks down and grins like she said something clever, and all he does is smile back.
"Yeah," he says, "I guess I am just a little."
You stare at the photo, it blurring in your tears. How, you wonder, is it that you can dream of such a happy family, such a happy life? You have nothing, boyo, nothing, yet you keep clasping onto it. Why not give up?
The wallet falls from your grasp, but you cling to the image like it's a lifeline, 'cause you're dying, boyo, dying on the inside.
You stash the photo away with the bills. You can't think of that right now, but you can't bring yourself to just get rid of it, either. Sure you had a rough life up 'til now, but it'll get better, 'cause that's what happens, right? You scoff. Please, you're a homeless punk with nothing to your name. Ain't no happy ending for your story.
You turn and walk deeper into the alley, looking for a spot to rest and hide. You doubt you'll get arrested – not like the cops care about what happens in this city – but you haven't survived this long without caution.
For a moment you entertain the thought of turning yourself in; free place to sleep, free food, an education, protection. Prison ain't like the movies, you hear. It ain't that bad. Sure, there's a reason for those myths, but it still has to better than this.
Anything has to be better than this.
"What the hell you think you doing in our alley?"
You stop dead, taking in your full surroundings. Cardboard boxes lay crumpled and covered with thin blankets, making a bed of sorts. There were at least five, all under fire escapes with tin sheets and tarps to keep the rain off them.
Your breath quickens. Crap, boyo, you just screwed up big time. Why couldn't you look where you were going?" Not going to even turn around to answer?"
Squeezing your hands into a fist – as if you could fight a whole tip by yourself, stupid boyo – you try and smooth what little nerves you have left. But you can't turn. You try, but your feet seem more like roots than anything else. "I-I didn't know-"
"That a Nest was back here?" You can hear the voice laughing at you through it's anger. Laughing just like everything else. "Well, what the hell you think was back here?"
"I-"
"Face me, bitch."
You have no option but to do as the voice says. And look what it gets you, boyo, just look at it all cross-eyed like. Your eyes glance from the knife blade aimed at your face to it's wielder. She's roughly a few years older than you – fifteen at most, and her skin pulled gaunt. Her green eyes, look how dull and faded they are, the way she hides them behind her grimy red hair. She's a leader, but she's too scared to lead herself.
Behind her were four other kids, most of the older. They all looked like their leader with their skin'n'bones frames and blank stares. They look like you. But they ain't you, boyo; they don't care about you none. Only themselves, just like the old man, just like the people walking by.
"What the hell you doing in our Nest? Who's tip you in?"
"He ain't in a tip. He's a Walker." There it is; a voice that calls you out. It always happens, no matter where you hide, boyo, a voice will call you out.
"No tip?" You see her lips stretch into a grin, but she ain't smiling at you. She's laughing; laughing at her luck. "So, boy, why you back here? You hiding from somebody?"
You try to answer her, but your voice's not coming 'cause it's too scared just like you. But it ain't the fear you feel when you don't know what's going to happen next. It's the kind that you know exactly what will happen, and you know there ain't no way to stop it.
It's the fear of the end, boyo. Your end.
"Give me whatever you got."
You empty out most of your pockets and your stashes, giving up the can and the pills, even the spare bills you hide in your shoes. But you don't empty the pocket with the photo and the old man's money. No, boyo, you're keeping that for yourself.
The girl with the knife swipes everything from your hands. Looking the stuff over, you watch her mouth move as she read the name of the pills before stashing it all away. Then she turns back at you.
"That ain't all of it is it?"
Sighing, you reach into your last pocket. You hand her the cash, but you hide the photo. You … you can't give that up, boyo. You don't really know why, but you have to hold onto it and never let it go. For some reason, it's special.
You try to slide it back into your pocket, but her arm shoots out and grabs your wrist.
"The hell you think you're doing, boy?"
"Nothing! I already gave you everything!"
"Don't lie to me, bitch!" she screams as the others form a circle around the two of you. "I saw your hand going for your pocket! You're holding back something; what is it?" She raises her other arm, pressing the knife to your neck. Her grip on your wrist tightens, making you cry out.
But you don't say anything. You can't say anything, 'cause there's a little ball in your throat and a block in your brain stopping all your words. You can feel tears welling up, and for what? A stupid picture of two people you don't know.
Why'd you keep it? Why'd you try and hide it? Was it 'cause it made you feel something, like a memory you never even had? You were foolish, boyo. You kept it 'cause when you looked at it, the man and the girl made you think that you could happy.
Only now do you realise that. You were trying to keep something that made you feel like you could be like them, all smiling and laughing. And now the tears are really coming, and you don't think you can give the photo up, even with a knife to your neck.
So you do the first thing that comes to your empty little head. You kick her in the gut as hard as you can.
Grunting, she lets go of you and you both stumble away from each other. You hear something clatter to the ground and you start running, but you don't get far. No boyo, you don't get far at all. How could you when you kick the group that's got you surrounded leader?
Everything happens too fast and it's all too much to take in. Every piece of you is numb except for a fire burning in your chest and you're lying on the ground. You're trying to see the sky, but everything's black as night. There's someone screaming, but it ain't you. Can't be you, 'cause you're gurgling something in your mouth and all you taste is metal. You know your in pain, but you can't feel it through the numbness.
"What the…ell, Kira! Why'd yo…ab him?"
Someone's yelling, but they seem a long way off. You can't really hear what's being said.
"Bast…ked me! …at…I s'posed…" You can still hear the screaming. "…mnit! Shu…ucking kid up!" And then there's nothing.
You feel something clawing at your clenched fist, but you don't have the strength to hold onto whatever was in it.
"…s a photo. He wa…a damn photo…"
Why's it so dark? Who … who is that talking? Do you know them?
"…at're we…to do with the…"
Why is it so cold, and why can't you see anything? You … you're kinda tired. Maybe this is a dream?
"…ake it to…iver. Dump it…"
Yeah. It's a dream. It has to be. You wanna laugh, 'cause it feels like you're drifting. It's been so long since you've felt this calm. It's kinda nice. You don't feel anything that you normally do: no hunger pangs, no achy limbs or bruises from fighting for food. It's wonderful, ain't it, boyo?
It's such a great dream. You hope you don't have to wake up soon.
Your footsteps are heavy and it feels like your feet are sinking into the ground. Looking around, all you see are trees, and they don't look too good. Nothing does.
Everything is covered in a grey fog and the trees are bare. The ground reminds you of the muck at the bottom of the dumpsters that've been left untouched by the trash trucks for too long. Everything looks like it's in a state between death and dying and ain't nothing moving: not the fog, not the trees, and sometimes you wonder if maybe not even you. As much as you've walked, ain't nothing around you has changed.
Sometimes while walking you still feel like breaking down and crying, but you don't do that anymore. Not after the first time. No, boyo, all you do now is walk.
When you woke up here, you didn't know what to do. At first you stumbled around, thinking about how you got here. Then you cried when you realised what 'here' meant. When you couldn't cry anymore, you started screaming and cursing, bashing and hitting anything you could. But that got you nowhere, boyo, 'cause you're still here in this forest. So you did the only thing you could do; you sat down and thought.
You ain't a religious person – you can't eat or pay with prayers, boyo – but you guessed this is some kind of afterlife. This ain't no Heaven like what those preachers and nuns talk about. And it ain't the Hell that you hear about, nether. It's like nothing you ever heard of, except from those kids in them orange shirts talking about the books they had. You remember them 'cause when you tried to steal their food, the fat one hit you and made a joke about a guy named Phineas fighting herpes. You didn't really get it, so you walked away.
After you got done thinking, you got up and walked. And walked. And walked some more, and the trees never stopped coming. You used to stop and rest every once and a while, and you'd try to sleep, but the truth is you were never even tired. You never felt anything here.
You wonder if you're alone in the forest, but you never see others, so it don't really matter. But there was a time when you hoped you'd see someone in the fog. You hoped for your mother, who used to sing to you before she left, who used to hold you and whisper that everything was fine when you didn't have nothing in your stomach, who protected you from the drunks that stumbled into the alley the two of you were laying in to get some sleep.
You … you can feel the tears coming at just the thought of her. She left when you were still really young. She didn't have enough food to make it and she gave the last bit to you so you would. You didn't want to keep it from her, but she made sure you ate it.
"Momma!" you cry as your little arms wrap around her. "Momma! Please don't go! Please!"
She lays a weak hand on your head and coos, tears streaming down from her eyes and into your hair. "It's okay, Cian. Everything's going to be fine."
"No it ain't! You're leaving me and I don't know what to do!"
"No one knows what to do, boyo, but they still do it. Cian, please look at me."
And you do and you wonder how she can look so at peace when you know she's going away. "Cian, promise me you'll be strong for me. Promise you'll become a big boy like I've always wanted you to."
"M-momma, please … don't go yet."
That's when she starts singing a song you've heard a hundred times as a lullaby, but, no, it's not you going to sleep this time.
"Where the brambles are thickest
There you will find
A pond beyond
The most twisted of vines.
"The journey there is long
And it is hard,
But well worth the pain
Of the marred.
"The Mirror Pool
In its hidden cave,
Reflects the dreams
Of the brave.
"So go, my child,
And may you find
A pond beyond
The most twisted of vines."
You hug her, but she ain't holding you anymore. Her arms are now limp by her side and her eyes ain't crying no more.
"M-momma?" You shake her. "Momma, please don't go. Wake up!" And you shake her again. "Momma! Momma, come back! I'll be a big boy, I promise, just wake up!" You keep shaking her, screaming, hoping she'll open her eyes and come back to you. But she ain't coming back no matter how hard you shake her, boyo, so for the love of God STOP! Just … stop 'cause it ain't working, boyo. It ain't ever going to work.
You ain't going to see your momma again. But you gotta be strong, boyo. For her. You gotta grow up to be a big boy, like you promised. Like you promised momma.
But you never did keep your promise. You tried, and it looked like you could make it. But then you found that photo and the girl with a knife.
Your hand reaches for your right jacket pocket out of habit. That stupid photo. No matter how often you rip it and tear it, stomp it and bury it beneath the ground, it keeps coming back to you like a dog that you should never've fed. Why did you have to die for a dumb photo of two people you ain't ever going to know? Why'd you have to let it keep you from keeping your promise? You barely made it to twelve, boyo. Not even close.
Without knowing what you're doing, you find yourself humming. Before long, you're swaying to the song, nice and slow like you're being rocked to sleep. Then, you're singing.
"Where the brambles are thickest
There you will find
A pond beyond
The most twisted of vines.
"The journey there is long
And it is hard,
But well worth the pain
Of the-"
You yelp and pull hand to you mouth before you realise you never actually felt pain. Looking around you see that you got lost in the lullaby as the once barren ground between the trees are now covered in briars and brambles. The fog seems less dense here than normal.
"What the…" you start, but you notice as the briars go on, they get thicker, and even then you can see something. And it's something odd, something glowing that you can't make out. So you start to dig your way through, not worrying about the briars. Sure, it feels weird, the way they seem to be digging away at you and ripping you apart, but it's not like anything hurts anymore. Well, nothing physical.
After a few minutes of working your way through, you find … a hole in the ground and nothing that's glowing. Screaming, you try to attack the surrounding brambles like it's their fault you just wasted your time, but then you remember that there ain't no time here. You ain't got nothing to waste.
You turn to leave when you hear it; something that sounded kinda like someone singing, kinda like a piano, kinda like the wind, kinda like nothing at all. That something sounded like a whole lotta kinda's. And it's coming from the hole.
A little part is screaming at you not to jump down into it but why listen to it? It ain't like you got something better to do. You find yourself sighing. It ain't like you got something to do at all.
It takes you a long while to find your way, because the hole ain't what you thought it'd be. It's more like a long winding tunnel. But the weird thing is that it isn't dark. It's almost as if the walls are glowing.
Eventually the tunnel levels out and you're standing in the last place you'd ever imagine. It was a wide open cavern, with all this beautiful moss and vines and flowers everywhere and on the wall, and there's a light coming from plants and up above. At first you thought it was sunlight coming down, but guess again, boyo! It's a freaking rock shining by itself! And you're laughing 'cause it's all too much to take in, but you ain't even thought about the best part. 'Cause right in the centre of it all is this pool of water, smooth as glass and like a mirror.
Before you know it, you're running as fast as your legs can carry you to the pool's edge. Heck, you don't even stop there, and now you're splashing and smiling and playing away like those kids you see at the city pools when you go to steal some new clothes. But you ain't thinking of them. Not here. Not in your special little heaven that's like your momma's song.
You ain't welcomed here no more, boyo. This pool ain't a heaven for you like you thought. Now when you play in it, it's cold like ice and it almost hurts. When you catch your reflection from the corner of your eye, for a second you swear it turns to look at you, and the light filling the place ain't as welcoming as it seemed. Sometimes you think you can hear the glowing stone from above cracking and about to fall in.
No, this ain't your heaven, boyo, and it's telling you to leave.
There's a long while before you can climb out of the tunnel that leads to the pool, but once out the view has you staggering, wondering where in the world you are. 'Cause it ain't the same as when you went in, no boyo, it ain't and it's scaring you. The trees are there, and the briars and brambles, but the trees are thick and everything is fresh and alive and there ain't no fog.
It's all so alive and ain't like it was and now you're thinking that the pool might be safer so you turn … and there's a rock where the tunnel was. Now you're crying and you want to scream but you can't. The pool's keeping you out, boyo, and throwing you into a world that ain't what you're used to; where it seems like the trees and plants are living in your world of death. Like it's playing the cruelest joke the universe has ever-
"Scootaloo, watch where you're going!"
"I can't! It was your idea to do this blindfolded!"
You look up and now you're screaming, 'cause as soon as you do, something red's coming down on your face and now everything's going dark.
"What do you think it is?"
Why … why is everything so foggy?
"Do you think it's a alien?"
And why does your head feel like it's been cracked open, boyo? Did that weird Sid kid that hides behind the fallen billboard let you drink out of his thermos again? And who's that talking?
"No, but it might be some kinda creature nopony's ever seen before! Wonder if we get to name it!"
Did … they just say 'nopony'?
"Too bad Apple Bloom's in Appleloosa."
Apple…loosa?
"Yeah, she'd love to see it, Sweetie, but she'll be here in a few days, so it's not like she'd never have the chance."
"Do you think it's alive?" Something pokes you in the side, making you groan. You try to open your eyes, but you can't. "Uh, nevermind."
"Sweetie Belle! Don't poke it! It might attack you!"
Attack? What are you, a wild animal?
"Oh, come on, Scootaloo! It won't hurt me! It'd just an adorable baby … bald monkey thingy."
Did … did they just call you a bald monkey thingy? Boyo, you've been called a lot of things in your life, but that has to be first time you've ever been called a … wait, no, there was that one time with the crazy lady.
"I think it's kinda big to be called a baby."
"Well, what am I supposed to call it? A foal?"
What the heck is a foal?
"No, I guess not."
"If baby's not right, how 'bout I call it a kid?"
"Does it look like a goat to you, Scootaloo?"
Goat? What the heck do goats have to do with kids? You may not be educated, boyo, but you're smart enough to know babies don't come from goats. They come from mommas.
"No, but I don't know what you call baby monkeys-"
"I thought you said it was too big to call a baby?"
"I know what I said! Just … help me get it up into the clubhouse."
You feel something odd reaching under your head and shoulders and at first you think it's arms that're picking you up and dragging. But they didn't feel right, more like tubes of flesh and warmth, and ain't nothing like normal, boyo, and you try and kick and get up.
Yelping, whatever was dragging you jumped away and your head comes down with a hard thud on something that felt like wood, and now you're seeing stars, boyo, like on the few night where the city ain't overcast and you're deep in the park away from lights.
"Don't just drop it!"
"I'm sorry! It spooked me…"
"…do you think we hit its head too hard?"
"Nah, if us crashing into it didn't hurt it too bad, then a bump coming up the stairway isn't going to do much."
Slowly everything came together again and you could feel your eyes fluttering open.
"Oh, Scootaloo, look! The monkey thingy's waking up!"
All the colours seemed to blur together, but you could make out two blobs: a white and pinkish-purple one, and a orange and purple one. Groaning, you lift your hands to rub your eyes.
"Ya know, Sweetie, I don't think it's a monkey."
"Well, it's definitely not a goat."
Blinking, you open you eyes again and immediately wish you hadn't. You really wish you hadn't opened your eyes, boyo, 'cause what's in front of you just can't be real. 'Cause right there with big eyes looking and smiling at you are two horse thingies that look like they've stepped out of those cartoons that play in the store windows.
Ain't no way that's real, boyo, 'cause even now after all that time in the forest, you ain't never gone crazy. So … oh no. Oh, now you're really losing it, boyo, 'cause these ain't only tiny horses, but one's a freaking unicorn and the other has birdy wings! Just calm down. Whatever you do, boyo, don't scream.
The white unicorn steps closer to you, it's bright green eyes looking into yours, and you ain't gonna lie 'cause it's cute, but still really freaks you out. It was blushing, it's cheeks a light shade of pink, and it had a hesitant smile. "So," it said, "do you wanna be my pet?"
Scratch that, boyo, you'd better scream.