[Some believe that fate is absolute, that it is preconceived, that it can not be changed. That any motion against it, will result in the same outcome regardless. That does not keep some from trying, those that know this fate, that hold desire to change it. Those with power.]
What does she love? Nothing.
What does she know? Nothing.
Bly simply exists, her colorless world, and cold, hard heart. A reflection stares back at her from a polished surface, His mark stands red and true. Red. She knows it should be red, she remembers what red looks like, but she doesn’t see the color. The edges of the laceration are crusted, the rough brown of an emerging scab. The blood flow has stopped, now the red simmers, pooled between forming barriers. She knows what this should look like, what colors it may be, and she pictures it-because that was all she had left.
For a time she stands there, staring at the girl that looks back. She wonders if the torture has ended, it has been quite some time since her last ordeal. And like her question is heard, there begins a stir. A humm in the air catches her ears, they turn before she does, because she does not know what to expect. She knew it would be bad, but just how bad? She starts, having completed her 180, for a moment she thinks it is all one big mirror. Upon closer inspection she see it is not, the thing that stares back is different.
It is still while she looks, taking in the entirety of its form. A greying mouth was accompanied by drooping lips, its eyes were adorned with obvious hollows above them. The face was raked by an old, aged scar, with a pearly sheen to the thin layers of skin. Its back was dipped, the withers had become bony, and she could see this horse’s muscle mass was deteriorating. It’s coat was dull, with a spotted-blanketed like hers. Hers. Me. This is me, she breathes.
The mare nods, a motion that is stiff, apparent in the discomfort it caused. Yes, she replies simply and she waits, as though she expected Bly to do something.
The little appy blinks, taking in this revelation, not sure as to where this was going. She took notice though, of the older mare’s unwavering gaze, coming from her own aged eyes. “Why are looking at me like that?” She finally decides to ask, because she simply can not riddle it out. Don’t you wish to leave?” The elder asks her, a tone which is absolute in her voice. “Yeeess,” Bly prolongs the word, tilting her head, and lifting a brow. What did she mean by leave, this older version of herself “This is what you become,” says the Mare, flat. It no longer feels anything. “You can escape.”
Escape It brings a spark to her mind, hope, had disappeared with the freezing of her heart. Yes, escape, she could do that. ”Well come on then, what are we waiting for?” Her response is met with another pained head shake, wisps of creamy mane falling to the floor. “I said You can escape, not We.” Everything is matter of fact, there is no deviance to her statements. ”You will not like your stay here, you will wish for death, you will pray. Yet still, day in and day out, you will continue to wake.” The last sentence is followed with a flicker, a disturbance in the form of this Mare before her.
“Okay,” she says just as slow and drawn out as before. “I am the key, use me” says the Mare.
Use me, she pondered, everything was a riddle. ”The key is inside me” again the older Bly was speaking to her, exasperated by her youthful musings. Bly’s eyes find the Mare’s, she knows what that means, because here, it could mean nothing else. “Of course it is” the young girl says, knowing now what must be done. How would she be enough to take on this version of herself? Sure, it was old, decrepit, weak - but she was young, and small. It would take forever for her to reach inside, maybe that’s what He wanted.
She rears, standing high, as high as a young girl can stand, and lashes out. She aims for the woman’s breast, and watches as her hooves meet the body. She felt them connect, could have sworn she felt flesh give. So why is it that when she returns to all fours that there is not a mark, not a single scratch on the other? Old Bly does what she does best, a simple shake of her head. “No Bly, you know that is not enough. You must use me, show him that you know how, show him the darkness of the heart he made you.” Oh thoughts, how they always come and go, how they never end and continue in the cogs of one’s mind.
Young Bly gives a half smirk, she played at the display of emotion that was stolen from her. The emotion that was taken with the heat of her heart. The Mare, the Self, tilts her old, shaky head. “Do not interrupt” is all young Bly says to the look, knowing how her Self would be used to orders by now. Used to following them. “You know I can not”
Bly thinks that if they had hands, arms even like a human, that her Self’s would be outstretched as if to say, ‘Do what must be done, go ahead.’ She will. She might not ever get back what was stolen, she could end this though, she could escape. First she must test it.
“Mother does not love me, not the way she loves the twins. I wish I were Romilly-wish I could take her place.” She can almost not finish her truth, a great ripping sound splits the cell, along with a scream. Her scream, young Bly’s. Her flesh is torn, across her hip, the blood spilling to the floor, running down her leg. She turns to look at it, her breath labored, gasping from the pain. She whips her dial back, finding her Self, the old Mare. It makes a step, lurches forward, “What are you doing?” The Self can not comprehend what young Bly has done, but it sees it, so very plainly before them.
“I said do not interrupt” Little Bly growls, overtaken with her suffering, her anger, her hate. Things that lived in everyone, deep, deep down. Those evil little thoughts that were tucked away as if they had never occurred. The ones that no one would utter out loud, but that did not mean they had never happened. Bad things you did, and pretended you did not, no one would ever know. Things that you treated as if they did not exist- somewhere. The elder heeds, stopping in her tracks, and backstepping to where she stood before. Even if Bly killed her Self, this Mare, it would still exist somewhere.
Time is strange and there are multiple paths, and the Self knows this, if it knows anything at all. It knows it can escape.
Young Bly decides she will take away the wheel, leaving nothing to travel along the path in the first place. She would end her own suffering, and thus, the suffering of her Self as well. She would bare everything, and suffer the consequences- no matter what she became in the end.
“Tioga frightens me. She does things that Mother does not know about, she hurts things sometimes. She is like her Father, a ticking bomb. I wish she were dead.” Another gash, another rip explodes across her neck, down her shoulder. She bellows, the Self watches, trembling despite itself.
“One time she played with a dying bird, but she did not end its pain. When she left, I finished it for her.” A gasp, she had never told anyone these things, these awful thoughts and actions. She did notice though, through her failing colorless vision, that each time she revealed herself- her Self faded and flickered. Old Bly was becoming weaker, transparent, little Bly could see the outline of a golden key within it.
“My Father never loved my Mother, she says he did, but I know he didn’t. I am glad, I’d rather have her all to myself. She may suffer heartache, but I am happy.” A gouge splits down her breast, she screams, she breathes, so very heavily. The cell floor is a mess, her blood and her life wets the damp earth.
On and on, the dark truths spill from her mouth, it does not take forever, soon she collapsed. A wet bed to caress her damaged body, a rock to rest her head. One more, it will only take one more, and she knows.
“I want to be the only thing Mother has left in life. I want to be the most important. It is better when she is alone, she has me.”
“Go,” it croaks, the words dying – all of the Self is dying. The Self disappears altogether, gone in a great flash of light. It would have been beautiful if she could see it, truly see it. Bly can barely make out the clang of the key as it falls, before she slips away- finding death, and in it escape
................................................................................
Blys ear twitches against the breeze, fresh air fills her nostrils, a fly lands on the fresh scab that adorns her face. She shudders for a moment, because somewhere in her-all is cold, all is ice. On the verge of waking she does not notice the grass against her body, the light of the sun against her flesh.
Yet still, day in and day out, you will continue to wake.
I hope that was okay XD. If it is not understood (which I hope it is) Bly is not truly dead.