My Suicide

by Dark Avenger

First published

Pony Joe goes for a midnight walk through Canterlot (sequel/"alternate ending" to "Warmth")

It's always the same path: Canterlot, an hour before midnight, a winding cobblestone street, an empty bridge, an empty house, an empty chair, and an empty bed.

He goes through this every night, as if each one were his last time. The wind is the only thing to accompany him. Its currents drag before him things he does not wish to see, yet he cannot force himself to look away.

The clock strikes twelve, and he falls asleep. No dreams come to save him.

(Sequel/"alternate ending" to "Warmth". Originally written for the collection "Within Tartarus: A Collection of Horrifying Events" made by Cromegas_Flare and co.)

(Inspired by the poem "The Inauguration of the Bridge" by János Arany and this video)

My Suicide

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I step outside, sigh, then turn around to lock the place up for tonight. It’s already well past closing time, but some of the patrons were rather persistent.

I stand still before the doorway for a while. My limbs shiver as the cold wind hits them. I look around, hoping to find some signs of life among the remains of the night’s festivities. The stands are all locked up, and the banners have been taken down. Everypony has already gone home.

The emptiness of the great square creates a hollow feeling inside me. I avert my gaze and let it wander up to the dark sky above. It’s another typical winter evening; no stars or moon are there to greet me.

I sigh again. My hooves ring out on the cobblestone and echo off the walls as I make my way down the street. A pair of guards trot past me silently as they make their rounds through this district. A beggar coughs, then lies down and curls up in a bundle of rags under one of the low-hanging balconies.

The fancy buildings near the castle are soon replaced by less appealing ones. I glance to my left as I pass one of the many abandoned houses. Most of them have been stripped inside and out, and the windows and doorways are all boarded up. Still, one can always expect to find something if they peek between the gaps.


The knot wasn’t fastened tightly enough. The drop didn’t do it right away. Her forehooves frantically slap against her neck and jaw as they struggle to grab the rope. Her lower half thrashes about uncontrollably. The chair has toppled over, so her legs can no longer find support.

The shadows obscure her face from view, but I know the expression that lies there. The unexpected pain and fear is more than they can bear. This is what they wanted, and yet, in their last moments, they struggle as hard as they can to save themselves.

But it’s already too late. The rope is cutting off her air and blood flow all the same. Nopony else can see or hear her. Nopony comes to her aid. Her limbs grow weaker with every passing second. The thrashing has stopped, but her legs are still squirming just inches off the safety of the floor.

Time runs out. Her forehooves drop down to her sides, and her body goes still.

It’s over.


I turn my attention back to the street. The Azure Bridge is just up ahead. It forms a long, low arc over the stream that runs through the city. The flow widens somewhat as it passes under the bridge, and the current slows down enough for it to form a small pond.

I pause for a moment as I reach the center of the pass, then trot up to the edge to take a peek at the depths beyond. The wind is much stronger here. It threatens to sweep me away. The gray stones feel cold against my forelegs as I lean on the parapet and hold fast. My gaze travels along the columns of the bridge, then plunges into the abyss beneath my hooves.

I remember being told stories about how many lives the great structures of old have claimed while they were being built. They said that every brick, every stone, and every hoofful of mortar cost a drop of blood each to put into its place.


They gave panicked shouts as they dragged his shaking body out of the water’s icy embrace. He fell in while they were trying to recover the latest one. Another pony has made their last flight. They either had no wings, or they weren’t trying to use them.

He coughed and sputtered, then started babbling incoherently once he managed to catch his breath. Minutes have passed, and they gave him all the warmth they could muster, but he was still shaking. They could barely make sense of his tirade as he kept screaming about “those below.”

Hidden in the black void beneath their boat, stretching out as far as he could see down there was a crowd of lifeless forms, each one anchored to the bottom by half-rotten binds, either tied around a limb, the torso, the neck, or even the tail.

It wasn’t their numbers that set him off, nor was it their steadily decaying forms, or even that many of the ropes were frayed and sported teeth marks all over. In the faint light of his torch, he could see that every single one of them held the same pose. Their heads were all raised, their mouths were left open in an airless howl, and every free limb was pointing up, stretching as far as they could toward the surface.


Of course, I realized later on that none of these stories were true. I do, however, know that before it would even begin to crumble, this bridge will see a pony die for every brick holding it together. And after that, maybe a few more.

The door slams shut behind me. I throw off my coat, then trudge into the living room and slump into the old armchair in the corner. A dull moan echoes outside as the bell tower announces the new day.

I throw my head back on the chair and exhale. My eyes trace the cracks and wet spots all over the ceiling. My hind legs tap nervously on the carpet. I try to make myself fall asleep, but my body refuses.

The liquor cabinet is but a hoof’s reach away. Too close to resist the temptation.


A peculiar thing happens once you’ve made your decision. Right before the blade touches your skin, or the moment before you surrender yourself to the force of gravity, or whatever else you’ve planned for yourself, something will stall you. The whole world stops for a while as you look up from the instrument of your doom.

You find yourself circled by a small crowd of pale figures. A hoofful, perhaps dozens, sometimes even hundreds. They are but skin and bones. Every eye and mouth is an empty void. No marks adorn on their flanks, and all color is lost from their once precious bodies.

They do not move. Each one will just stand there and stare at you, waiting for you to finish the deed. If you look closely at a few of them, you may recognize who they are. You have met them before. Everypony that you’ve ever seen in your life -- even if only for a moment -- that has since gone on to meet the same fate. They are now here to see you through it.

This is the sign. From this point forward, you can be certain there is no turning back. You will not change your mind. You will not get lucky. Nopony will save you, least of all yourself. Only those who have reached this threshold will be able to witness this event.

You may stall for as long as you want. You may write down every detail of the experience. You may tell whoever you want, whenever you want. It won’t make any difference. Nopony else will see them, and they probably won’t believe you either.

Besides, it’s better to respect those who bothered to show themselves. You should not keep them waiting.


I pour myself another drink. The lines of the glass are starting to blur together. I gulp down the fiery substance, then decide to ignore formalities altogether. I lift the bottle this time. My lips and tongue burn as they make way for the sweet warmth pouring into my belly.

Behind my closed eyelids, I see the maroon colt again. He pays for his drinks, turns around, and walks out the door. His body quickly disappears in the raging blizzard.

“Why didn’t I run after you?” I whisper.


She lifts her head away and closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see it happen.

The metal feels cold. Her hoof shakes as she tries to will it to move.

There is a sharp sting, followed by a warm caress flowing all over her skin. The hoof starts to go numb, followed by her entire foreleg. She sobs through gritted teeth, and her eyes bleed from his memory one last time.

“I hate you,” she whispers.


In the end, living on is no different than what they go through. All of us simply march our bodies forward to their inevitable end. If one considers it a sin, then we are all equally guilty. Only those who have eluded the black horse -- those who fought against it and won -- have found the way out. Everything else is just procrastination.

If you told anyone that you are sorry, or that you love them, you were lying. If you left a note, nothing that you wrote on it will be an honest epitaph. At the moment of truth, as you feel the life draining out of your body, your emotions won’t be what you might expect them to be.

You will feel hate. Your body doesn’t want to let go. It wasn’t designed to destroy itself. You will despise it for making things difficult. For you, this moment is supposed to bring relief. It shouldn’t turn into any additional burden.

You will hate all those who cannot stop you now. You will hate them for never trying, and for forcing you to go through this ordeal.


I stumble out of the chair. The whole room is spinning. Cursing silently, I manage to drag myself along the walls to my bedroom.

My stomach empties itself at the door. I ignore the mess and keep moving. Once I reach the bed, I let myself sink into the soft cushions, almost drowning in the process. Within moments, a dreamless sleep takes me away.


This is my punishment. This is what I must endure for betraying the trust of those that I’ve been allowed to see. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, they are there, waiting.

I know I’ll do it eventually. I try to stall for as long as I can, but my reasons to stay have run out. Someday, my dear friend, you will find me as a cold, empty husk, either hanging from a rope with an inequine, stretched out neck, or dissolving in a bathtub full of lukewarm water that’s been tainted dull red, or lying in bed with an empty bottle and some scattered pills around me.

I don’t know when it might happen, but I know that it’s as certain as the next sunrise, or my very next breath. There is no need to fear what is inevitable. One must embrace it. And once you’ve seen me like that, we might just meet again another day.

Heaven (external chapter)

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