First published
I have never once closed my eyes and not reopened them again at some later time.
My only constant is that I always come back to a beach, and speak to a pony I do not understand.
I really hope I get to leave soon.
Take a look into the Kaleidoscope.
Part of the Kaleidoscope writing challenge for the Quills and Sofas Speedwriting group. The challenge was to write a story based around the same title, prompt and cover.
Dances can be partitioned into parts, sometimes.
It can have as many parts as the creator would like.
Our dance, the dance we all do, has three parts.
We are born, we live, and then we die.
I wonder whether my dance had a different creator.
Because I was born, and then I lived, and then I died.
And then I was born again.
"And how long have you been feeling like this, Miss Rarity?"
"All my life I suppose."
"All your life?" He says, and though he tries to disguise it I can hear his scepticism, "But when did it start?"
"I just told you. I've been feeling it all my life."
"What, your whole life?" he asks, eyebrow raised, "You've been feeling this since the moment you were born, the instant you came into the world?"
"Well," I begin, "That's the question, isn't it?"
When I was born, the second time that is, the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck. They hadn't known this was a risk until it was too late. Thanks to the quick work of the staff, it never really escalated to anything serious, but had been a scare.
Sometimes, when my mother was cross with me she'd bring it up. She never meant any harm by it, in fact I think she meant it in an endearing fashion. I'd be running around, acting like children do. Then she'd huff and say, 'Rarity, you've been difficult from the moment you were born'. I have to admit that that is indeed one interpretation.
But for me, I imagined that something was keeping me suspended for a moment. Half in the world, and half in the stationary non-reality of my mother's womb. It was like the world didn't really want me. I often think about that and laugh.
Then I cry.
"We can find meaning in anything if we look hard enough, Rarity."
"I know. It's torture, isn't it?"
The first time I mentioned it was quite late on, considering how long it had bothered me. I was still too young to understand it wasn't normal. I thought these memories were just what everyone had. Most of the time it was fine. I just recalled ponies acting or doing things slightly differently. This was easily explained even for a child. Ponies change, after all.
No, the hardest thing was remembering someone who didn't seem to exist anymore.
I remembered a stallion who would sing for me when I went to sleep. I remember him listening to me prattle on about fashion. The one I had now... he tried. But his hooves were big and clumsy. He couldn't sing at all. I wanted my father. This one didn't seem right. It was like a pair of shoes that were too small.
"Mother," I began, my approximation of vocal refinement clear at only six years old, "Where is father?"
"What d'ya mean sweetheart? He's in the living room."
"No, not him. I mean where is father?"
And she looked at me with such a face of confusion and horror that even then I realised something was deeply wrong. So I never brought it up again.
"So, you've always had false memories?" he asks, scribbling away on his little notepad.
"I didn't say they were false."
"So you think they're real, that you had a past life?"
"I didn't say that either."
"Well..." he begins, hiding his growing exasperation very poorly, "What do you think?"
"I don't care whether I had a past life, doctor," I snap, "I appreciate that, by every estimation, I appear insane. The issue is that whether I am or not, it feels real."
"The mind can conjure sensations even when-"
"Twilight Sparkle. My friend. Do you know I remember her being my wife? I remember it as clear as day. I can still smell her mane, she used a different shampoo then. Now, she's not interested in me. All my memories are better than what I have now, doctor. So I don't really care whether it's real, the way it tortures me is real enough."
He looks at me, and I know he doesn't believe I'm in my right mind. The look is kind, and sad. He wants to help even though he can't. He has to say it, and I brace myself.
"And that's why you tried to kill yourself?"
"Yes," I breathe, feeling strangely relieved, "That's why I tried to kill myself."
I allow myself to zone out while he writes me a prescription. On the wall is a painting. Some abstract rendition of a building against the night sky. It's beautiful, and I have no memory of seeing it before at all. I hold onto that and get lost in it.
They let me out of hospital after a few weeks. Said I wasn't a risk anymore. I've always been quite a good liar, a lifetime of hiding something will help you with that.
I hailed a taxi and asked the pony pulling it to take me somewhere beautiful. I don't think they understood really, and their tone implied I had unsettled them. But even so, they did as I asked. They took me to a beach. It was grey, misty. The sands were dark. It was hardly the image of a beach that most ponies would have. But they were right, it was beautiful.
As I walked down to the water, I looked behind me at the hoof-prints I left. Conventional wisdom was that they'd be gone tomorrow, but I feared I knew better than that.
"I'm sorry."
I startled at the voice, and turned to its source. The mare was small, I loomed over her even as I tried not to. She had kind eyes. Tired, but kind. Her coat and mane were both white. Albinism was rare, but not unheard of. She was quite beautiful actually.
"I'm sorry miss, I must have misheard you," I reply, voice strained, "What could you have to apologise to me for?"
And she didn't respond with anything other than that smile. She reached out to pass me something, and when I saw it I didn't quite know how to react. It was a little model of Twilight, of my wife. She always used to love my art. So, one day, I carved her figurines of the two of us. She'd loved it.
Insane or not, the agony was real either way. I didn't check to see whether the mare or her little model were still there. Instead I began to walk forward. I didn't stop moving until my head dipped below the sea, and then I stopped moving all together.
Not all dances are showstoppers.
This is a sad fact of life, and we all must face it.
For me, my dance kept going regardless of how many times I died.
So I had a choice.
Force myself to hate every moment of it, or allow myself feel joy again.
Did it make me detestable, to so readily choose the latter?
When our hooves touch sand, we stumble. Both tipsy, drunk on lust. But it's a good fall, and I don't mind that I get sand in my dress. She is stood over me chewing her lip, clearly unsure what to do. I've been here hundreds of times though, probably thousands, so I have no qualms about pulling her down to kiss me. When we break, she goes to remove her mask, but I tell her to keep it on. There was something about masquerades which made the evening feel fleeting, ephemeral, like I'd never get a chance to be here again. It was a feeling I didn't get to experience very often.
But she's young. She's at least a couple of years older than I was now, but so young in the grand scheme. Instead of kissing me again she cuddles against my chest. I didn't mind, it was sweet and she smelled wonderful.
"Should I get us some more champagne?" she asks me eventually, and I tell her that sounded wonderful. She rises to head back into the main building, and when I turn I giggle at the spring in her step.
I turn back to watch the sea. After a while, someone walks up and sits next to me. I already know who it is.
She was holding something, like she usually was. One time it was a book, one time it was an empty bottle of something. One time it was a box she wouldn't open, and she left when I asked her what was inside. Regardless, it always happens, every life but the first. At some point we both end up on a beach.
"I've met Ditzy many times, she never changes much." I say, pointing to the picture of the grey mare in her hands, "Was she someone special to you once?"
"Like she in the mask is to you?" she asks, and I understand the implication.
"No, I was asking whether she was really special. Like my first Twilight was to me. Even the later ones don't hold a candle to her."
She doesn't answer, and stares out to sea with a little smile on her face. Eventually she nods her agreement.
"I'm sorry," is all I can say.
"I'm sorry miss, I must have misheard you. What could you have to apologise to me for?" she replies, and I genuinely laugh.
"I see you're enjoying yourself," she continues, "Please keep doing that. It doesn't last. Something else comes next."
"Doesn't last?" I ask, "You understand the irony of saying that to a mare who cannot die."
"Oh Rarity," she says, and sounds sad, "Believe me, you can die."
I don't respond and keep looking at the sea. She doesn't say anything else to me for the rest of my life.
Do you remember the first time you danced?
How about the tenth? Hundredth? Thousandth?
Eventually, it all blurs into one, distorted by the weigh of the dances before it.
Mine is no different, and now I can scarcely remember anything at all.
Just
a
beach
and
a
white
mare.
"Rarity, wake up," she says, and gently stirs me. But the sand is comfortable beneath my tummy, and I don't want to move.
"How long have we been here?" I ask sleepily, and she stares at me.
We can't help it, and we both start to laugh. What a silly question.
I stare down at the sand between my hooves while she flicks through a book.
"It's been occurring to me more and more that, while I remember that all my lives have happened, I cannot tell you anything about them."
"Hmm," she replies, still focusing on the pages.
"You know don't you? This has happened to you." It's a statement, not a question, "How long does it last?"
And when she turns to respond to me, it's one moment in a countless infinity, and it passes before I even realise it's begun.
"Sometimes I wonder if we're the pastime of a god. Or an experiment gone wrong. What could have possibly inspired what we are? Clearly we weren't ever meant to know infinity."
"Oh?" she asks, handing me a pocket watch she's been playing with.
"But then I think about how many times I've lived, and I think about how many times I must have had these ideas. Nothing became of them then, so why would something now? Maybe there aren't any new ideas."
"Inspiration is a strange thing," she replies, "I don't think there's much new under the sun."
"That's what terrifies me."
When I look at her, she towers over me. It's not often I get to chat to her when I'm a foal. We stroll along the beach, and when I look at all of the ponies around us it's almost like they're in fast motion.
"I don't want to keep doing this. They all die so quickly, and I die with them each time."
"I know."
"Can you tell me how to stop it?" I ask, and she doesn't respond.
We continue our walk and I start to feel slow. At this point I realise I'm towering over her again. When I look at my hooves they're all wrinkly, but she doesn't look any different.
"Come on Rarity," she says, reaching out hooves to help me along, "Just a little further now."
We are both staring at the sea. She's playing around idly with a large knife. I cannot fathom a world in which is would be necessary, but she has it so we must be in one.
"How did you know? That first time back?" I ask, and she raises her eyebrows.
"You've never asked me that before."
"It never seemed too important. I just assumed you were the same as I am. Are you?"
"I am and I'm not,"
"I'm tired of riddles." I reply.
"It explains it the best it can be explained Rarity. I knew because I used to be like you, before I was this."
"And how do you feel about that?"
"Do you care how I feel?" she asks, and it's entirely without malice.
"No," I say, and it sounds like her, "But I think I might become something different soon, so I want to know what it's like."
"I think you'll understand when I'm gone."
"Why won't you help me stop this?" I say, and begin to sob, "I'm so tired."
"It's not that simple."
"Well why not?!" I scream, and she places the knife down, "I'm sick of dancing, blinking through years in seconds. Come to think of it, I've not seen you die once. Not like I do."
"You don't know how long I've wanted to hear that. Would you like to? Are you ready now?" she asks, voice awash with relief as her eyes flick to the knife.
It's at that point that I think I understand.
She doesn't need to say please, she doesn't have time to before I take it and ram it into her throat. I wouldn't want someone to hesitate with me, so I won't for her. She doesn't flinch, and for the only time in countless infinities her smile looks something other than tired.
And when she's spent, I stand and walk straight to the water. It isn't like that first time, not entirely. Instead of immersing my head. I float there for a spell and feel the tide against my coat. It cools me and mingles with my tears. On the shore I see a foal, the first other pony I can recall seeing in detail for a long time, and I allow myself the short respite of drowning in solitude.
On a beach, a unicorn stallion stares at the sea, trying to work up the courage to walk into it.
He startles when he hears a voice to his right, saying simply 'I'm sorry'.
And when he turns, he sees a white mare with a purple mane.
Her smile is kind, but tired.