It Didn't Need to be Like This
Do you ever feel like you're falling?
There was a question. She heard it, but she didn’t. No answer escaped her drying lips. Rather, a simple “hm?” was all she could grace such a question with. Her eyes remained unfocused, lost within a world of their own as she fumbled with the thoughts that slogged through her mind. She closed them.
Do you ever feel like you’re falling?
The question came softly, like a false whisper on some unseen, unfelt, wind. It scratched at her ears, wisped through her mane, and she felt cold. So cold.
Not really falling, I guess. Maybe more like. . . like fading? Like you aren’t quite here or there.
The answer was as complex as the question, maybe even more so. She hadn’t really answered her, had she?
Had she?
No. . . maybe fading isn’t the word, either. Drifting? Yeah, like you’re moving and you know you’re moving, but you never really feel like you are. Like it feels as though you’re almost. . .
“Haunting.”
The words seemed to come from her, but she did not feel her mouth move, nor did she really hear her voice with her ears. She knew, though.
She knew that’s what she said, what she felt.
Yeah. . . Well, maybe not something quite as foreboding or dramatic as that, actually. But I think it’s still closer.
An urge told her to open her eyes, so she did.
A moon awaited her. Its pale, ghostly beams of light seemed to flow and turn visibly, like they were ripples on the surface of a puddle or lake. They ran across the small hill she sat upon, breaching through the sparse, dark clouds that shifted ever so slowly overhead and covered the hill in their faded light. Behind her, an old willow tree was perched, its leaves glistening. Just down the hill, a humble lake was laid before her, casting the moon’s image across its waters like a spring painting. Each small wave or ripple was like brushstrokes painstakingly imprinted on the body of water. It was perfect, as it was supposed to be.
She made it.
She took in all these things without looking. There was no need to look; she knew this place, knew it as a mother knows her child. And she knew the voice that the wind carried to her ears, perhaps in a similar way.
The dark clouds above shifted, casting shadows over her and blocking out her moon. She looked towards the skies, drinking in the brooding beauty as best she could, wanting to burst through the cover of the clouds and bask in her light. Her wings did not shift, though, nor did her hooves fidget. She hardly moved at all, hardly breathed even, as she waited.
She sat tall with a face of faux calmness, unblinking. And she waited for nothing because nothing would come. Oh, how she wanted that to be true.
Though, a small piece wished it was a lie.
A breeze gently rolled over her little hill, and once more did that voice hover over her shoulder.
Do you ever feel like you’re just, I don’t know. . . Just haunting, Princess?
The voice was strained now, in her ear. Not broken yet, but certainly it was on the verge of it. She still did not move, did not blink or breath, but her determination wavered. Her brow lowered, and her face contorted slightly.
A small, shaky gasp escaped her.
Finally, that old familiar burn in her chest, that pained turning of her stomach, punched through her. It surged like a powerful, daunting wave of pain and anguish. Her jaw clenched, and she closed her eyes, trying to will it to be over, pleading for it to just stop. She tensed her legs in an attempt to remain dignified and sitting.
The wind, and the voice, did not hear her silent, wordless prayers.
D-do you ever feel heavier than you should? No, not like an a-actual weight thing, but like. . . like your hooves don’t move or feel like they should. L-like you don’t feel like you should.
It was more pained now, like it was just barely holding itself together.
A painful lump rose suddenly in her throat.
How do I do this, Luna? How do I do what everyone else can do? How do I even live like this? I-I can’t. . .
Her heart ached, and her throat was suddenly very dry. Her breaths came shaky and spaced unevenly. When she opened her eyes, they burned.
How do I do this? Luna?
It had finally broken, hadn’t it? This is when she knew, she was sure of it. This moment between them.
Tears slowly wormed their way down her dry, matted cheeks.
That’s all I’m doing, aren’t I? I-I’m just haunting my own life.
And yet, she did nothing. She knew and she did nothing.
I’m so. . . so sorry, Luna. How do I forgive myself for myself, Luna? Please. . . p-please tell me, please show me how.
“You don’t,” she heard herself say.
She tried to tell herself it wasn’t her fault, that there was no way she could have known, but then she closed her eyes and saw that face. That beautiful, lavender face. The face she tried so hard to remember and forget. The face that she cared so deeply for yet so scornfully resented. It stared at her, begging her to answer. But its eyes, pale and hollow, seemed to know it would not receive an answer.
It couldn’t, not anymore.
I love you. Nothing will change that. I’ll see you again, I’m sure. I know I will. Somewhere, someday. I’ll be there, in your dreams. I promise. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?
Won’t you. . .
The voice was eerily calm now, mimicking the wind’s sudden quietness. Its life was fading quickly. All the strength and sureness of just moments ago was waning as fast as it had come. It was a brief miracle of light in the darkness of her night that made the moon look dim, and that light had come to a bitter, short end.
Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the ground, not bothering to wipe at her increasingly wet eyes and face. She let the tears roll freely, breathing deeply despite her shaking figure.
She waited, as she had for many, many nights. She waited as she would for countless nights to come.
She waited for nothing.