Raining.
Raining.
It was raining outside.
A young unicorn stared into the night through the window.
A flower sat on the windowsill, which the unicorn absentmindedly examined. It was a pretty flower, but a rose didn’t mean much, even if it deserved to shine, if it was raining outside.
The unicorn sighed, the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the roof keeping them awake.
They should’ve been in bed, what, 2 hours ago? At least, their parents had yelled at them for it. But after trying for 30-45 minutes, they gave up. They didn’t really have the drive to do anything. Now, their silhouette was watching out a window, and their head rested up the windowsill.
A fan was tipped over in the unicorn’s messy room, they’d knocked it over while reaching the window, a bookshelf sat to their left, and a turned-off lamp sat to their right.
Aside from the rain, the only sounds outside were that of normal, static night noise. As far as the unicorn knew, everypony in the city was asleep. Except for them.
The unicorn felt their blocky face with a hoof. Too blocky, they thought. Why couldn’t they have something like their sister’s face? Something smaller and curvier.
But they liked being a boy, right?
Right?
The hollowness of that statement caused the unicorn to push their hair out of their face, it was long, wasn’t it? But they liked it long. It felt nice, and they thought it looked good on them. Gave their hooves something to do in the boring downtime at school.
But their parents sure didn’t.
The unicorn sighed again.
Everytime they came in contact with their parents, it was always, “Why do you insist on filing your horn thinner? Why don’t you cut that rats’ nest of a mane? Mares and stallions have different body types, so you literally cannot get a dress. Why are you even asking for a dress, you aren’t going to wear it to church.”
Honestly, they just liked those things.
Their sex had nothing to do with it.
But they didn’t just like those things.
They liked the freedom of expression, the alignment of those objects to being a mare, but the unicorn was shot down everytime they wanted one.
Everytime that happened, they would ask, “Why do I have to be stallionlike?”
On several occasions, their parents responded with, “There’s a fine line there…”
The unicorn knew there was no room for debate after that. Their parents weren’t budging. So, the unicorn continued staring out the window. They were torn apart, just wanting to pass time.
Thunder.
There was a severe weather advisory tonight, according to the paper.
But still, the ‘stallion’ looked out the window.
Lightning jumped in front of their eyesight, illuminating the bleakness of the deep night.
They kept telling themselves that their parents were accepting, all things considered. Religious, old-fashioned, not really the most knowledgeable on recent magic treatment innovations, no matter how much the unicorn told them about said innovations.
Yet, they still gave a valiant effort, and the unicorn had to applaud them on that. Even still, it felt so insensitive.
It was like their parents assumed that the unicorn was completely fine when they marginalized a certain group of ponies.
Everytime some pony like them would make headlines, their parents’ first question was always why.
Why did they feel like they had to do this, usually. The unicorn never butted in, they were too scared, and didn’t want their parents to judge them like they judged those ponies.
The unicorn was even scared to mention people at school.
Their parents assumed the unicorn was fine with that, but they weren’t fine with it, they were still figuring things out. But at the moment, they hated being put down, because it felt inherently wrong in some way.
Figuring those things out may lead them to be a member of those very groups, and it might not. All they knew right now was that they were uncomfortable… with everything.
The put-downs, the hoofwaves in regards to whatever the hell ‘gender identity’ was, the absolute insensitivity of everypony around them.
They wanted to align with marelike things, but they knew they couldn’t, too risky. But still, one could hope, right?
Right?
The unicorn continued looking out the window.
Pouring.
It was pouring outside.
The thunder and lightning weren’t letting up either. In fact, they got faster within the heart of the storm. The pitter-patter became a torrent, and any static noise was blocked out by the pouring rain.
The unicorn broke down, they couldn’t stay strong anymore. Sobbing softly as the storm raged on outside, the unicorn…
Well, they didn’t know what to do.
Because it all seemed so overwhelming.
The world weighed on their shoulders, trying to tell them to be who they were meant to be. But still… the impossibility of it all, their family, their complete and utter uncertainty with anything and everything around them.
Why did being a pony have to be so hard?
Couldn’t they just live a life happy, who they always wanted to be?
They shouldn’t be giving applause to their parents for trying, they should accept that they always are.
They shouldn’t feel like they’re trapped in a box, they should feel free to express themselves however they choose.
But they couldn’t.
The torrential downpour had caught the unicorn under the weather, and they needed help. But due to the nature of torrential downpours, everypony was miles away. All they could do was wander aimlessly in the abyss, hoping for anypony, anything, just something to keep their mind at ease. Something to bring them to the light.
If they found somepony, that’d be great, but they hadn’t.
The thunder would continue rolling, and the unicorn would have to find their own way. It would be hard, but with enough willpower, they’d make it through.
They continued looking out the window.
Raining.
The storm was easing up.
The torrent devolved to the same pitter-patter. The skies, however, were still blacked out, and it could very well continue raining for a long time. The unicorn was still crying, but they weren’t so bad now.
Even a torrential downpour has to end sometime. The unicorn would find a way out of this. They could choose to wait until better times came, or find the clear skies themselves. Right now, the latter seemed like a better option.
Yes, they thought to themselves, I’ll be free someday.
Then I can be whoever I want, with whoever I want.
But they had to find their way first.
They might need a compass, but nothing was impossible.
They’d just need a push in the right direction.
Feeling slightly better, the unicorn stared out the window. The rain was easing up. The unicorn gingerly steps over the fallen fan and returns to their bed, trying to hide away from the storm.
They’d get out someday, and they hoped that someday was tomorrow, or at least, someday in the near future. Tomorrow was unlikely, they corrected to themselves, but there would be an end, they hoped.
A flower sits on a windowsill, a unicorn with long hair and a slightly blocky face wakes up. Almost too blocky, she thinks.
The unicorn looks at the flower, a glimmering rose against a clear blue sky. One of the prettiest flowers she’s ever seen.
There had been intense rain last night, but the unicorn powered through, it was nothing a little help couldn’t fix.
Speaking of help…
“Hey, look, I know the rose is pretty, but you’re the prettiest Rose I know.”
There he is, a unicorn. The help that the unicorn had held onto last night.
“Dice, get off me,” Rose complains.
“Oh come on, you know you love me,” Dice says.
Rose laughs, ”I do, but I can’t get out of bed if you’re on me.”
“And that’s really such a bad thing?” Dice says with a smirk. Nevertheless, he gets out of bed, and Rose follows. “We need to eat anyways,” he said.
Monsoon season’s over, in more ways than one. The paper yesterday had mentioned there’d be clear skies with scattered showers for the next while.
But that isn’t all.
Rose had run into Dice in school, and he had helped her find a way. A hoof to pull her through, going through the same things she was, just in the opposite way. She quickly learned that she wasn’t alone.
She confessed, they’d cried together, and hadn’t separated since.
On her way to the kitchen, Rose sees a letter from her parents on a coffee table. She deftly levitates it up and disposes of it.
She doesn’t want another storm.