"Patchwork."
Her fur is white, and her short mane is like a candy cane.
"Brokenbones," I say, correcting her, "or BB. Everyone calls me BB."
She gnaws on the metal part of the pencil in her mouth. The tip bobs up and down.
"Right," she says, drawling out the word. "BB, we've done an extensive number of psychological evaluations and tests, but we still don't have an answer for your motive."
I'm sitting down like a dog on the other side of the clear, plastic wall between us. I lean forward and press my nose against the wall. It instantly fogs up.
"And?" I ask. Her fur is so incredibly white, it's almost like it's luminescent. In a way, she doesn't seem like she's real. Everything is so sterile. The walls around my cell are white, the hallway that Candy Cane is sitting in is white, the floor is white, the ceiling is white, even the bed frame of my cot is white. They say that I'm crazy, I'm not, but I will be if there isn't a change in scenery.
Candy Cane chews on the end of her pencil again. She taps her legal pad with the tip. Her eyebrows draw down and her red eyes narrow.
"What I mean to ask is: Why did you do it?"
I exhale and the plastic fogs up until she disappears behind it. I stand up and trot around my cell. They're always asking questions, always wanting to get something out of me. I don't know what it is that they want. Every week it's, "Why did you do it?" And every week, I have the same answer. I walk back to the plastic pane and stand a few inches away from it. Candy Cane looks up at me, and I stare down into her eyes.
"Do immortal ponies bleed red?" I ask. "Because I've always wanted to know."