Feed Me
Coxa, my coltfriend, keeps a tight schedule.
On Mondays, he meets with his second marefriend. On Tuesdays, he sometimes finds a third, and dumps her the next day. Wednesdays through Fridays, he’s busy at work. I don’t really know what he does.
But on weekends, it’s just him and me. He unpacks his bags, and pretends like nothing is wrong. I pretend too, and we dance. Bodies wrapped, breaths rising and falling, waves crashing against the apartment walls, a yin-yang of harmonious intent as we sing sweet nothings into the frigid air.
“Blossomforth!” he shouts, words like icicles. “Your changeling king demands your love.”
“Mm.” I snuggle closer to him, and we kiss, hard. I feel my energy being sapped, and I slump further into the bed.
Coxa grabs onto my waist, and jerks me up hard. “Not enough. More.” He presses his lips to mine again, and kisses harder.
“Mm!” I flail, waving my limbs in every direction. Just as I feel myself going faint, he lets go, and I gasp for air. I collapse to the mattress, panting heavily, tingling spreading throughout my hooves.
Coxa doesn’t fare much better. He’s panting too, barely propping himself up with a hoof that’s visibly shaking. Every couple seconds, he twitches his head back and forth, neck cracking at odd angles. He shudders, glancing around, eyes twitching rapidly, desperately searching for more sympathy in a room containing just me and the empty air.
We take a couple minutes to calm down, and then he speaks. “Not good enough.”
I put on a fake smile, and say, “Coxa, that was nice. I know last time might have been—”
“Don’t lie to me, bitch.” His voice is low amidst the humming of the broken air conditioner.
I try again. “Coxa, I tried my best, because you’re you.” Putting on my baby voice, I say, “After all, you’re my little buggy wug—”
Slap.
I’m too stunned to flinch. For a moment, I check to see if there’s any pain. Then, I notice his trembling hooves stuck in a war, embattled in the air. He grits his teeth, shudders one more time, and then carefully lowers the hoof he used to stop the other from hitting me. With the other hoof, he lightly punches himself across the face. Then it limply falls down, and he hangs his head, counting floor tiles one by one.
Without a word, I roll over, and lie face down on the bed. “Fine. You you want love? You’ll get your love.”
He gasps a sorrowful, empty gasp, and in a flash he’s on top of me. “I’m sorry,” he wails. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—AAAGH!” He snarls and bites down, hard. “Fuck it. I can’t wait. Just go. Hurry the fuck up.” His head twitches again.
I comply, and the waves crash down upon the apartment building once more.
On Monday, he buys me a dress.
I ask, “Aren’t you supposed to be… somewhere else?”
He holds the dress out to me, and gestures towards the closet. “I thought this would look good with your wings.”
I take it, and hold it up to the light, squinting one eye closed and looking between the dress and Coxa with the other. It’s a dark maroon, just like his carapace. “Right.”
“Won’t you put it on, Blossomforth?’
I sigh, dropping my hooves and dragging the dress along with me towards the closet. “Fine.”
When I open the door, I look back, and squint at Coxa, knitting my brows. I see his eyes quickly flash away, and he pretends to observe a painting above the bed. I sigh, walk into the closet, and close the door behind me.
While I change, I hear a series of loud thumps outside, followed by Coxa’s signature gravelly cursing. Then, I hear the front door slam open. His muted voice drips like rotting sap in my ears. “Sorry, Blossom! Uh… s-something just came up and I gotta go.” Hoofsteps, then the door slams shut. Then silence.
I roll my eyes, and I sit down, staring forward with no expression. After a couple minutes, I get up, and finish putting on the dress. Then I amble over to the mirror, smile as hard as I can, and twirl in a pretty circle. I throw my mane around and make silly faces, and screech into the afternoon sun.
Then, I punch the mirror hard, and it shatters. I clean my bloodied hoof and go to work tardy.
On Tuesday, I set a trap.
In the afternoon, I borrow a little changeling magic, a “gift” from Zecora. I think about Coxa’s dreams.
“Pink mane, red fur…” he had muttered in his sleep. “Eyes as big as dinner plates, shorn hooves, a tail colored twice with vividity wrapped around in a double-helix. One braid. Plays hard to get at, but secretly an inner dream. Hmm. Honey, are you awake?” And then I had hid the notebook, and pretended to talk in my sleep, keeping my breaths slow and controlled.
I stop thinking about Coxa’s dreams. Then I take the potion and drink it.
In the evening, I visit the bar at the edge of Ponyville. It’s out of the way, so it became a rendezvous for the emotionally timid. Here, wealth and status cease to exist, and the only thing that matters is the drinking, love, and the pumping of the beat, throbbing along with the denizens’ aching hearts.
It’s here that I meet Coxa, and it is the easiest thing in the world for him to swallow the bait.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I smile bashfully, and flip my pink mane. “I don’t think you need to know,” I respond.
He growls playfully. “Stars, you’re right. I don’t need your name to know that you’re the most beautiful mare in Equestria. You look lonely. Join me.”
I don’t know if it’s the thumping music, or the disguised confidence, or the alcohol I’ve been drinking, but I practically leak love. He drinks it up and moans, head-twitching ceasing and trembling hooves momentarily forgotten.
In the morning, he wakes me up, tells me he hates me, and then turns around to leave.
Just as he reaches the door, I shout, “Wait!”
He turns his head around. “What the hell do you want, mare?”
I slowly rise from the bedsheets, wiping some of the sweat off. “Why do you do it?”
He looks at me curiously for a second, eyebrow raised, tapping a hoof on his chin. Then he shrugs and scoffs. “Tell everypony I’m Equestria’s last changeling druggie. That I’m a piece of shit who cheats on my marefriend, because I thought that the thrill of drinking love was more important. But whatever. It’s not like you’ll be seeing me again.” He heads out the door and slams it behind him, leaving me in the musky hotel room air and the silence.
So I’ve found my evidence. I’m tired of it, tired of everything.
So I do nothing. I wait until Saturday rolls around, and then I lie on my belly reading children’s comics until he shows up.
I hear the sound of a lock being turned and a door being opened. Then hoofsteps, and a shadow across the comic page. I pretend not to notice, kicking my hind legs back and forth, humming a funeral dirge.
“You’re wearing the dress.”
I look up and act surprised. “Oh. It’s you. What a pleasure.”
He lowers himself to the tiled floor, and bows.
I raise an eyebrow. “Well if you’re going to apologize, this better be something real big.”
Still lowered, he mutters, “I’m sorry for leaving on Monday. I should explain mys—”
“I already know.”
He slumps even further. “Yeah. I figured.”
I return to my comics, going back to pretending that he isn’t there, crossing my hind legs, then uncrossing them over and over again. When he doesn’t move a muscle, I ask, “So? Aren’t you hungry for something?”
He takes a moment before responding. “They’re taking me away tomorrow.”
“Who?”
“Princess Twilight. The police. Whoever the hell else can charge me for whatever I’ve done.”
I close the comic and sit up. “Turned yourself in?”
He sighs, and stops bowing, sitting with his back bent. “Not yet, but I am.”
“Mm.” I push myself out of the bed, and head towards the bathroom. “I’m going for a shower.” I pick up the washcloth hanging on the wall, and flick on the light.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ve known for a while, haven’t you? You saw my withdrawals. So why are you here? Why did you stay?”
I don’t have an answer. “I don’t know,” I say simply. Then I resume walking into the bathroom and turn the shower to the highest temperature, placing the towel down and spreading out a rug in front.
He follows me to the door, but waits outside. “You’re just like me, aren’t you? You can’t get enough, can you? M-maybe we can call things even, maybe things can be just like they—”
“They cannot,” I hiss, wheeling around and glaring at him like I never dared to before. “I’m not like you. I played pretend, pretended not to know, pretended not to care. But I’m tired of it. Playtime’s over. Maybe you can live a lie forever, but I can’t.”
He’s silent, and I see something that could almost be guilt in his eyes for a moment. Then he opens his mouth. “Mares like you—”
“Get out.” My voice is quiet and shaky. He hesitates. “Go. Now. The door.”
He leaves.
I take a deep breath, in and out. Then I turn down the shower knob a little bit, and step inside.
The running water hides my tears, but eventually, washes them away.