Toymaker's Creation Trapped inside a Crystal Ball.

Happiness. What happiness? She felt like smirking at the idea but she just had no more energy left to do so. The usually smiling pink face now was fixed into a hopeless, expressionless face. She used to cry. She used to cry a lot. But what was the point anymore? It wouldn't make things better. She tried. She knows. Yearning to feel alive when she was already dead was a feeling that filled her every second of the day. The pictures that hung loosely on the wall captured a happier time, a happier her. Now, it just felt alien. She forgot what that felt like. Her mind drifted to the knife on the table on the right, and her gaze followed. It was one of the things that made her happy, because that's the thing about pain – it demands to be felt, and it doesn't matter how dead you are on the inside, the pain on the outside, your skin will never fail you.

She got off the chair and walked to the knife slowly. Keeping the same slow pace, she slid that knife onto her belly and pressed. Instant gratification, instant sensations of wonderful, blissful happiness rushed through her veins as the red blood seeped out. She was so happy she laughed and she smiled, and her eyes were overcome with the same joy that she showed her friends and deceived them with, only this time it was genuine. And once more she cut. She couldn't stop; because she knew the second she stopped she would go back to her misery. But she did, for the adrenaline faded and her heart stopped palpitating madly. Only then did she see the nine red, angry marks on her skin. She had to count.

She may have stopped, but the blood hadn't. It oozed at a comfortable pace out, the opaque crimson the most beautiful colour she had ever seen. She watched incredulously as it continued its flow, and she could watch forever. She dapped at the blood occasionally with a tissue. But blood wasn't on her side either, because it stopped bleeding after a while and she grew impatient as the speed of the blood forming a bubble and then flowing decreased immensely. She nudged the cut a little, and she pressed the cuts a bit. But good things don't last. She was well acquainted with that fact.

Who cared? She felt better than she did half an hour ago. She was once again strong enough to face the world and the ponies in it. She fluffed up her happy hair, practiced her wide grin in the mirror, threw on a sweater and galloped joyously out of the home. She could pretend, she had lots of practice.