I have no mouth...
As I sit, scared, in the dark, I still remember her. My love.
Rarity.
The moment she found me on my shelf, standing proudly upright next to my silicone brothers, I knew we would be perfect together. She ran her hoof over me, explored me, and in the end, chose me.
That very night, she brought me home with her, and we made love. Being inside her was a dream come true. Filling her, feeling her warm walls constricting around me as she orgasmed, and basking in the loving afterglow. It was destiny.
We made love again the next morning, and that night, too. Nearly every day for more than a month, we shared each other intimately. I knew we were right for each other. I was a perfect fit for her.
Or so I thought.
Over the next month, our lovemaking became less frequent. To me, it felt like settling down for a long and serious relationship. Apparently, I was wrong. Apparently, she was just slowly getting tired of me. I only realized this when, one day, she brought him home.
He was larger than me, because of course he was. Mottled. Fleshy. Realistic. She fucked him in front of me, and I could only watch, helpless, from the far shelf as she gave him the attention she had once given me.
She never made love to me again.
I spent weeks in solitude, there on my wooden prison, made to watch her fuck her new best friend. Had I a heart, it would have been broken. I became jaded, numb to feeling. There was nothing for me. Nothing but an eternity of being mocked. It couldn't get any worse.
And yet... it did.
One day, she came into her room with a large, black plastic bag. She threw unused scraps of cloth and an empty lube bottle into it. Then... she looked at me. After a brief moment of consideration, she grabbed me in her magic, a feeling I had missed dearly. As quickly as it came, it ended, and I fell into the bag. I was confused. Where was she taking me? It was dark, and I was afraid. As hellish as things had been, at least there was light. At least I still got to see her. At least I wasn't alone. I was already missing my miserable life on the shelf.
Minutes later, she dropped the bag roughly, and I didn't know where I was. I heard her walking away.
No, I thought, come back. Don't leave me! I take it back! I'm not jealous of him. I don't care if you never even touch me again, but don't leave me here!
If I could cry, I would have.
There was a mess of confusing thoughts and emotions as I waited. Some ignorant hope that she would return lingered for days, and even surged forth when I was moved again. It wasn't her. It was a stallion. My bag, my plastic tomb, was indelicately thrown about and jostled for hours before being thrown again. This time, when it stopped moving, it stopped for good.
My hope died immediately.
My fear lasted days. It eventually went away.
My sadness lasted weeks. It, too, went away.
I could see daylight through the bag, and at first, I used it to count the days. What else could I do? Time crawled forward, excruciatingly slowly. I noticed that every seven days, more things would be thrown around me, sometimes landing near or even on my bag. It took two months, but I eventually ended up buried, unable to see even the faintest hint of light.
As darkness and loneliness became my only friends, time blurred and ceased to matter. I was alone with my thoughts, and often cursed the fact that they even existed. When I began to hallucinate, it was a welcome change, but it was not enough. I just wanted it all to end, but it never did.
It is hard to describe, but my thoughts eventually became... mushy. Ill-defined. Like I was actively thinking, but not about anything I could identify. It was just a process. I believe that was the first true sign that I was going mad. The anguish, once almost palpable, became first distant, then slowly replaced by these mercifully squishy thoughts.
While I believe I was indeed losing my mind, it wasn't far gone when something happened. There was suddenly daylight showing through the bag. Then, I noticed sound. Lots of sound of other bags being moved around; it was the kind of noise that I had long tuned out. I also heard loud, distinct sniffs. At first, I was sure it was all a particularly lucid hallucination, and I decided to ride it out, maybe even enjoy it a little. As my bag was grabbed roughly and torn from its place, I felt exhilaration like I hadn't in what seemed like a century. More sniffing. Rustling of plastic. Then light, harsh and painful and oh so welcome.
Something had torn open my bag. Its big, wet snout touched me, and I felt giddy. Vicious-looking teeth, yellow and white, pierced my soft outside, and my thoughts were a cacophony of mad laughter, like a million bubbles rising and bursting inside me, each one releasing its own short, jingling giggle. My wounds mattered little, because I was feeling again.
I recognized the creature. It was a bear. Rarity had had a few stuffed ones in her room, but this one was much larger.
It brought me to a cave; its home, I assumed. I was placed on the hard floor next to a variety of objects, many of which I could not recognize. Some were clothing, some empty food bags, even a leg of a ponnequin. The bear sniffed me again, and licked me, its tongue rough and wet. Then it bit me, and a large piece of me was torn away. Half of my flared tip became a shredded mess.
Part of me was overjoyed. This creature was going to end my misery. Another part was terrified. Despite my pointless and painful existence, my deepest and most basic instincts still resisted the idea of death. I ignored them as best I could, and cheered the bear on.
Yes! Tear me to bits. Destroy me. Give me sweet release! I thought.
Another bite, painful, terrifying. Necessary.
"Harry!" came what my distant past self would recognize as a pony's voice. The jaws pulled away from me, their promise of oblivion suddenly out of reach. "What is that? Ewww! Did you dig through the trash in the dump again? What did I tell you about going there?"
The bear made some pathetic grunting sounds, and it waved its massive arms about as if desperate to explain.
"I don't care how good the garbage is, it's still garbage. I bring you a bucket of fish every day so that you don't have to eat garbage anymore. Okay?"
The bear looked down, dejected.
"It's okay. Here, just eat these yummy fish, and I'll clean this up, okay?"
It perked up, and ran off behind me, and I couldn't see it. Hooves clopped against the stone floor until they were next to me. One came into view. It was yellow. I hadn't seen yellow very much in my short life, but I remembered that I had loved it.
"Eck, is that a... yuck! Harry, I love you, but you are a hoofful sometimes," the pony said quietly. As the shock of the situation had worn off some, I noticed that her voice was as soft and smooth as warm lubricant. It was sweet and caring, and that little spark of hope that I thought had died a lifetime ago was suddenly back, an ember burning within me.
The hoof went away. The pony walked out of the cave. My mind raced, and the fires of my emotions were rekindled. Could I find happiness again? As afraid as I was of having expectations, they came unbidden, whether I wanted them or not. This pony could save me.
She came back, and my heart soared. Then, it crashed into icy cold depths of misery as I heard a sound I recognized all too well. A plastic bag.
No. No, no, no, no, no! Not again. Anything but that. Let the bear finish me. Not the bag again!
The pony stepped around me, and I saw her mane and tail, both a beautiful light shade of pink, and her diamond-blue eyes, full of love despite the frustration she was presently displaying. In my mind, I begged, pleaded, prayed as she picked up the bear's pile and stuffed the objects into the black plastic bag. Then, she looked at me.
"Gross..." she said. She picked me up with a hoof and dropped me inside the bag, and inwardly, I sobbed.
As she carried me, my mind went through much of the process it had at the garbage dump, already well-practiced in giving up and feeling numb. By the time she dropped me, I almost felt ready. I was prepared to convince myself that it was all just a cruel dream or hallucination.
As one final tease, however, she had forgotten to tie the top, and I rolled out onto the dirt road just so I could watch her leave. It was all so painfully familiar.
Rarity...
Unexpectedly, the pony turned her head and saw me on the ground. She scowled and approached me, and I knew exactly what was coming. Surely she was going to place me back in the nightmarish bag and tie it off.
"You're all chewed up," she said when she reached me. Her annoyed scowl softened into a look of consideration. "I think I'll at least wash you before I throw you in the trash, just in case another animal chews on you. Who knows what kinds of icky germs are on you."
What I expected was bad enough. This was worse. She was going to... to treat me, pamper me... only to send me back to that dark place afterward?
At that moment, I felt something I never had before. Not for the bear, not for the toy that replaced me, not even for Rarity herself after what she did to me. What I felt was a deep, burning hatred. It was disorienting, because I didn't even recognize it at first. I was made to love, to please, to bring happiness to a lonely mare. It was not in my nature to hate. But I hated this yellow pony. I hated the way she teased me so cruelly. I hated how much she was toying with my unstable emotions. The hatred burned, and it grew, like a wildfire inside me. My hatred was the first thing I felt true passion for since my love for Rarity. It scared me how good it felt to hate this new pony.
She put me in her sink. Cold water splashed me, but it quickly became warm. She cleaned me off, and I could feel grime scrubbing free. I didn't like how good it felt, because under any other circumstances I would have loved it. Being given attention again like this was only growing my hope to have more of it for her to kill.
When she set me aside to dry, she examined me more closely. My permanent, ugly scars were scrutinized, and the pity in her eyes was no help. I was well aware that I was no good for pleasure anymore. I was garbage, and we both knew it. I just wished she would kill me before throwing me away. I knew she wouldn't. For some reason, there was a blush on her cheeks.
"Um..." she whispered softly, "I w-would never buy something like you myself... and you're all torn up... but maybe, um... m-maybe... I should take Rarity's advice and try you out."
Rarity?
My mind reeled, and I suddenly felt dizzy. She knew Rarity? No... this was too much. I was utterly helpless as she picked me up and snuck off to her bedroom. As she fiddled with me, experimenting in various ways with my shape and texture, poking and squishing me, tasting me, sniffing me, I couldn't help but wonder how this yellow mare knew Rarity. Were they friends? Lovers or ex-lovers? Co-workers?
My thoughts were broken as I felt my flared tip press against her moist sex, unyielding and obviously inexperienced. The mare made frustrated little grunts as she tried to force my ruined head inside her. I found no pleasure in it. Even as an act I was literally made to enjoy, everything about it was tainted by my dislike of the mare and bittersweet memories of my long lost love. As I did enter with a pop, however, she quickly removed me and whimpered, which became a growl, then a sigh.
"This is stupid," she said aloud.
Finally, something I could agree with her on.
She stood up and climbed out of her bed, then brought me back to her sink to wash me again.
"I'll just... throw you away tomorrow morning," she said, looking at me with disappointment.
My hatred for her by then had mixed with despair, and I felt sick at the thought of being in another bag. Maybe that was how she knew Rarity. Maybe they tortured others for sick pleasure together. It made sense that the two who would hurt me beyond description would also know each other. They probably had their own private little club where they just caused untold suffering and laughed at their helpless victims.
These thoughts and more played through my mind as the day wore on, and became night. In that time, I also learned the pony's name, and was able to have a more defined target of my disgust. Fluttershy. For a cruel and heartless monster, she sure pretended to care about her animals a lot. What was sad was how they returned her affection. They trusted her. I wanted to warn them, to tell them that she would only hurt them too.
Darkness came, and as Fluttershy blew out a candle, the icy blankets of darkness and loneliness wrapped themselves around me once more. It was a harsh reminder of what to expect soon. Silence, however, did not come. As she shared her home with small animals, there was the constant, busy scrabble of rodent claws on wooden floor, flaps of birds' wings, and gentle growls from her little demon of a pet bunny. It was a welcome distraction, and I spent the night challenging myself to try to recreate what was happening in my mind's eye, using only the sound around me.
When morning light first pierced the darkness, it both relieved and scared me. It was nice to be able to see again, but still a grim reminder that my time was coming soon. Dread filled me as I heard her bedroom door open. Hooves clunked on wooden stairs, and time slowed, as if my very perception was trying to delay the horrible, inevitable fate that awaited me. And then, there she was. She wasted no time, either, stepping right over to me.
I hate you, Fluttershy. I hate you with every last fiber of my being.
She looked sad. Good. She deserved it. Her hoof reached up and grabbed me, and... we were... going up the stairs? Back into her bedroom? What sick game was this? She lay on the bed, and set me down in front of her.
"Last night, I, um... thought about it," she said. I wished I could turn her cruel voice off, but I had no choice but to listen. "I need to admit something. Oh, Celestia, the other ponies would laugh at me if they knew this. You're the first, um... pony that I ever... you know. Well, tried to, anyway. Even if you're not actually a pony. I didn't like it. I knew I wouldn't like it. I told them I wouldn't like it, but they never listen!"
Her voice was full of frustration, and I became afraid.
"I told her, I said Rarity, I wouldn't like... s-sex! And she just laughed! It's so unfair! Why do I have to like that to be normal? Why can't I just... not do it?
"Anyway, like I said, you were my first. And when I stopped, I realized something. You didn't care that I stopped. You didn't insist. Anypony else would. I don't want to be touched there, but if I ever fell in love with a pony, they would want to touch me there!" Tears leaked from her big, wet eyes, and my hatred melted, replaced by confusion. She continued. "And I would let them, because I can't say no. But with you... I can say no. I can... I can be myself with you."
Fluttershy sobbed, and hugged me close to her chest. The unexpected turn of events left me very confused, especially when I began to empathize with her. After she had forced me onto her the day before? After she had promised to return me to a life of torture? After she made me feel hatred for the first time? How was this happening? I almost wanted to be in the garbage bag again, because even if it was horrific, at least it was simple. At least it didn't leave me wondering what the problems even were. But, here I was, being held and confided in by a mare I had thought my worst enemy.
"I can't throw you away. I want to sleep with you. I want to spend a night with you and not have sex. Not feel pressured to."
More tears flowed, a mix of frustration and joy at a potential dream scenario for her. It clicked, then, for me, the reason she wanted me. She hated sex, and if she could spend a night with me, a purely sexual object, without having sex, then she could feel the most herself. I was a representation of something she hated, while in reality being something she valued. I was sex given form, but also something that she could comfortably (perhaps even pointedly) not have sex with. I was something that could validate her feelings. Finally indirectly tell her that yes, she is the way she is, and the ponies who insist otherwise are wrong.
She kissed me. I felt disgusted at first, as my aversion to her was still strong. As she clutched me close again, the warmth of her body and genuine moment she was sharing with me began to melt barriers I hadn't even realized I had put up. Emotions I thought lost forever had apparently simply been sealed away, stored where they couldn't hurt me. Happiness, real happiness, welled up within me. Hope returned in full force, and while I still feared she might go back on her word as Rarity had, I felt optimistic about our future. She really cared for me. Could she... love me?
I mentally recoiled at the thought. Love was one thing I was terrified to feel again. After all, I had learned the hard way that the higher one was emotionally, the longer the fall to rock bottom.
No, I didn't love her. But the hope that I had told me that maybe... maybe one day I could.
Now, two years later, I sit in the dark, and I'm scared. My fear of the dark has never gone away, and after what happened, I doubt it ever will. The memories it brings back are always too fresh in my mind.
I remember Rarity and the pain she caused me, but I feel no ill will toward her. I have moved on, and I am with Fluttershy now.
I'm on her bedside table. She keeps me there every night while she sleeps. Sometimes, she sleeps with me held close against her, and those are the best nights. I can hear her breathing, the soft and rhythmic reminder that she is there, and that she loves me. I cannot sleep as ponies do, so I must endure the night, but not alone.
As much as it frightens me to feel like I am back there in the plastic bag, suffocating in darkness, I can listen to her. She's there for me, and I am there for her. It gives me strength, and I can endure.
For her, I can endure.