"She Will Catch You"
To one of my best friends and the first (and probably only girl) I ever loved.
Tears streaked down a single path on her cheek and soaked the cyan pillow upon which Scootaloo rested her head. It's a good thing she didn't wear mascara; it would have made her crying all the more visible. She didn't cry often, as you'd expect from someone like her. She was tough. Sticks and stones could not hurt her as much as words could physically, but an army of her peers led by Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon ambushed her with weapons of a much greater strength. And all because of Apple Bloom. Damn her. Damn the honesty she held in her genes. Damn the whole world in fact. As if the teasing wasn't enough, she had to come home, a place that shouldn't be regarded with a word of such warmth. It was Hell; and she was one of its mere prisoners, wrongfully convicted to a lifetime of damnation and torture. No matter where she went, she only found a fire burning up what little good there was. It seemed the world had no use for her, and so she decided to do the world a favor and dispose of herself.
Pulling her head from the pillow, Scootaloo reached over to her nightstand and, with a single, furious yank, opened the drawer. Inside it was just a couple of extreme sports magazines, a Royal Air Force brochure, and small orange bottle. She grabbed the bottle and shook it. It rattled only slightly. Scootaloo popped off the cap and stuck an eye inside. Only three little white pills left. "Those won't do anyway," she thought. She sniffled before grabbing her phone from the nightstand and walking into the bathroom just a couple doors down the hall. The shuffling of her baggy cargo pants was the only sound other than the occasional sniff.
Scootaloo, leaning over the bright white porcelain sink, looked up and made eye contact with the broken mess in the mirror. She searched those sorrowful, grayish purple eyes for a reason not to do this. Needless to say, she couldn't and opened the medicine cabinet. The cabinet was a mini-bar of typical household pharmaceuticals, a collection of cough syrups, antibiotics, and painkillers that were petty compared to the ones to which she had grown accustomed. Scootaloo's eyes narrowed to one bottle in particular. It was similar to the one in her nightstand: prescription orange packaging, white childproof cap. But there was no label on this bottle. Although, she knew what it was. Her father had been a part of the experiment for a month now. Scootaloo didn't bother closing the cabinet. She didn't want the see herself again. Not now, not ever.
With one part of her intended concoction in her left hand and her cell in her right, Scootaloo walked to the kitchen, passing the living room and dining room on the way. The kitchen was still pretty new to her, bought and installed less than a month ago. Under the counter was a liquor cabinet that was usually unlocked. Scootaloo opened the big wooden door of a mask to reveal a safe-like container door with a deadbolt lock and handle. She grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door didn't budge. "Shit," she said out loud. But still, she pulled again and again, each one more aggressive than the last, and then stopped after getting nowhere.
"Fuck it," Scootaloo said, talking to herself, "I'm sure if I take enough of 'em, it'll do the trick."
She returned to the living room and threw herself onto the couch facing the front door. Scootaloo wanted to be the first thing those two sadists saw when they came home.
Looking at the bottle, Scootaloo began wondering how long it would take. With her usual candy of choice, it took about ten minutes. But this was different. Different bottle, different effect, different reason. So, she should get something out of the way first.
Scootaloo put the bottle in her lap, leaving behind just her phone. For six years, she had that phone, that hunk of junk. The screen was fractured, and the touchscreen was so jacked-up that she didn't need a set password since only she knew the chaotic pattern of the touchscreen. The decor of the phone was the same color as her hair. She wanted a new one, had for about three years now. But the tight-fisted pigs she had for parents wouldn't get her a new one, saying, "If it still works, than you can use it." But, Scootaloo wasn't doing this over a phone. She rotated the phone in her hands to its side and pushed forward to reveal the full keyboard underneath the screen. She typed, "Good-bye sweetie" and sent the message to Sweetie Belle.
Scootaloo thought this was the least she could do for who seemed like the only real friend in the world. She had known Sweetie much longer than she had known Apple Bloom. They were closer, too; and Sweetie was the only one who didn't look down upon Scootaloo for what the orange-skinned girl had been doing for the past two months on a regular basis. And at least she didn't let that little secret slip out to Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon.
Scootaloo exchanged the phone for the bottle in her lap; and, with a push and a twist, opened the bottle. She counted as she poured out the pills into the palm of her hand. Four...five...six...that's it. "Hm," Scootaloo thought, "that should do it, I guess, since the dosage is one per day." She tossed the bottle across the room and then tossed back her head with the handful of pills clamped over her mouth. They were tiny, and so she swallowed them with ease.
Bzzzt! Bzzzt! The phone in her lap began vibrating in alarm. Scootaloo looked at it to see that it was a text from Sweetie Belle:
"Where r u goin?"
Scootaloo hit reply and typed:
"Hell probably."
After sending it, Scootaloo made herself comfortable on the couch since she was going to there a while.
Bzzzt! Bzzzt!
"What r u talkin about?"
Scootaloo typed:
"I'm sorry. I need 2 do this. Bye."
Scootaloo popped off the back of her cell and took out the battery before tossing the phone and its removed parts under the couch.
Scootaloo started to feel extremely drowsy. Hoping that this was what she was waiting for, she lied down across the couch and closed her eyes so the black veil could take her silently and quicly. But not before a tear escaped her left eye and she muttered, "I'm sorry, Sweetie."
The strong hand of the gusty spring wind slammed against the side of the house, rattling it. Scootaloo's eyes popped open; and, in realizing what hadn't happened, she cried even more. Was she such a failure that she couldn't even do this one thing right? Those damn things must have been placeboes. It's not like she had a…
That's when she realized that she, or rather her father, did have one, tucked away somewhere his study.
Scootaloo got up from the couch, and her sneaker-covered feet walked her to her old man's study. The room was only considered to a study because that was what it was built as. But Scootaloo's father, when they moved in, turned it into a home office where he could get plastered in peace, even though "peace" wasn't something around when her father was drunk. And to make things worse, the thing for which she was looking was stashed away in here under no lock or key. Luckily, he has never gotten it out while he was in that state.
Scootaloo found it in the bottom drawer of the right set of cabinets in the room's desk. It was stored in a large oak box that once contained some of those luxurious foreign cigars her father smoked. Oh, how she loathed those things. Scootaloo often wondered how her emotionally degrading, sociopathic mother could deal with such a man, only to come to the same answer: they were perfect for each other—a match made in Hell.
Scootaloo pulled out the firearm. The weapon was meticulously clean. The hammer, the barrel, the handle—all of it looked brand new. She checked the pistol's clip and made sure that the safety was off (because it doesn't take a Twilight to work a gun) before returning to her place on the couch.
This was it. These seconds were going to be the final moments in her life. She sat there, with the pistol in her hands, staring at it. Not many things raced through her head. The first was of how perfect this method was. The grey matter and red blood from the aftermath of pulling the trigger would soak into the carpet fibers and stain the surrounding white walls, leaving a near-permanent reminder of the self-inflicted fate that would befall her.
Then, her mind thought of Sweetie Belle and how Sweetie was really the only victim here. She would lose not only one of her two best friends but also the closer of the two.
But Scootaloo felt this was something that was going to happen, either by her or her parents' hands.
Scootaloo began sobbing again as she turned the gun in her hands to herself. She shoved the barrel into her mouth, her tongue running over the hole and tasting the cold steel. Scootaloo pulled back the hammer and readied her thumbs on the trigger. She closed her eyes as another wave of tears ran from them. One…two…
"Scootaloo!" a high-pitched voice cracked as its owner barged through the front door.
Scootaloo opened her eyes to see Sweetie Belle rushing to her with hands reaching out for the gun. Scootaloo pulled it back from her, but Sweetie still caught it. For a split-second, they each struggled for control over the gun until they heard an ear-shattering "BANG!" A faint stream of smoke poured from the barrel. Both girls looked at the gun and the hole in the wall to Scootaloo's left.
While her friend was distracted, Sweetie Belle finally pried the weapon from her friend's hands with a single strong tug.
"Scootaloo," Sweetie Belle said with a voice that trembled with fear and growled with anger, "what the hell were you doing?"
"What do you think I was doing? I was trying to kill myself."
Sweetie's heart sank, her fear being confirmed. "But, why?"
"Oh, come on," Scootaloo sniffled, "you heard what Diamond said. I'm nothing but a pill-popping burnout."
"Are you really going to listen to what Diamond said?" Sweetie Belle stood up, still holding the pistol, and offered the unoccupied hand to Scootaloo, who reluctantly took it. She was then caught off-guard by Sweetie Belle throwing her arms around her. Even though she couldn't see it, Scootaloo knew Sweetie Belle was crying. Scootaloo returned the hug.
"I don't want anything to ever happen to you," Sweetie Belle cried, proving Scootaloo right. Sweetie Belle buried her face into Scootaloo's shoulder and said something, but it was muffled by Scoot's shoulder. Scootaloo heard it clearly though.
That, combined with Sweetie Belle's wailing, pushed Scootaloo over that line again, causing tears to resurface in her eyes.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't take it anymore."
Sweetie Belle pulled away from Scootaloo. "What, Diamond's and Silver's bullying? We've dealt with that for years."
"Yeah, I could deal with them; it's just that everybody else was joining in, ya know? Not to mention what Apple Bloom did, and—"
Scootaloo stopped, because only she knew what else that's been mentally and physically beating her down over the years. She had never told another living soul about it.
Sweetie Belle took notice in the abrupt ending. "And what?"
"Just never mind," Scootaloo said with a dash of agitation.
"But, Scootaloo—"
"What?!" The sadness in the room began to harden into bitterness.
"Tell me!" Sweetie Belle begged.
"What?! You want to know? Fine!" Scootaloo yelled. Her head cocked slightly to the left, and she slouched a bit. "Do you know why I sometimes wear long-sleeved shirts and sweatshirts in weather too warm for it?"
Sweetie Belle shrugged.
"Well, it's because of this."
Scootaloo's right hand grabbed the rolled-up sleeve on her left elbow and pushed. Dotting her upper arm, there were three large, circular burns, about the size of the traditional imported cigar.
Sweetie Belle gasped and then squeaked out, "Oh, my gosh! What the hell happened?"
The sadness and tears returned to Scootaloo. "My father happened. Apparently, he likes to do stuff like this to me when he gets drunk." She rolled up the other sleeve to reveal cuts, parallel to one another. Sweetie Belle jumped a little at the sight and covered her gaping mouth with her free hand. "These I got," she began as her voice descended into a pool of depression, "when he bought a new bottle of whiskey, which he celebrated by drinking it all and cutting me."
Sweetie Belle removed the hand from over her mouth. "Does your mother know?"
A small, empty smile showed itself on Scootaloo's face. "Yeah, but she always says the same thing: I deserved it."
Again, Sweetie Belle hugged Scootaloo.
"You don't. You don't deserve it." Sweetie Belle pulled back from Scootaloo. "Why don't you stay with my parents, my sister, and me tonight?"
"No, I'll be fine."
"You just tried to kill yourself; you're obviously not fine," Sweetie Belle said with a deadpan expression, which was then swapped for one of comfort and reassurance. "Please stay with us. And tomorrow, we can tell social services about your parents."
Scootaloo opened her mouth to object, but she was immediately stopped by Sweetie Belle.
"Scoots, they have tortured you with, with whatever it is that they do. They deserve the same now, okay?"
Scootaloo vaguely acceded by shrugging her shoulders.
"Let's go get you some clothes for the night," Sweetie said, tossing the pistol over to the couch. Sweetie grabbed Scootaloo's hand and led her to her room.
Just when the two reached Scootaloo's room, Scootaloo stopped, jerking Sweetie Belle back. Sweetie gave her a confused look. This time, it was Scootaloo who initiated the hug, crying.
"Thank you, Sweetie Belle," she said as she wept, "I'm so sorry I took you for granted."
Sweetie Belle, with her arms already requiting the embrace, began rubbing her right hand on Scootaloo's right shoulder blade. "It's okay," she reassured.
"And Sweetie Belle?"
"Yes?"
Scootaloo hiccupped. "I love you, too."