Taptap taptap. Taptap taptap.

Christopher strummed his fingers along his thigh, thinking.

Of course, they would have suggested his own home to keep her in. He was the eldest of the four, he had an actual basement, he was more knowledgeable, it was closer – any excuse they could find, really. But he knew the real reasons two of the others had insisted on using his own home.

The simple fact of the matter was that they didn’t want to clean up the mess.

The pony gave a miserable twitch when he touched it, but barely moved after that. Christopher found himself staring at the unconscious mare as he knelt next to her, losing himself in thought.

Of course, they’d made boastful claims about what they’d do with their own personal subordinate from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Even Phil did now and then, and the scrawny man wasn’t even much of a Brony in the first place. It was quite another thing, however, to actually be in the position to do it.

The mare before him gave a pitiful little kick with one of her back legs, though she made no move to shift from the dried puddle she lay in. One of her eyes was partially open, but she stared straight into nothingness. Never had he seen a pony, let alone any actual person, looking so completely and utterly...

Broken.

After a few moments of silence, Christopher slowly began undoing her bonds.

It was simple enough to carry her up the small flight of stairs to the bathroom on the second floor.

The barely conscious mare in his arms felt so… unnaturally thin. Too light, and her already slim frame only gave her an air of fragility. Without realizing it, Christopher found himself walking more softly toward the bathtub before placing her carefully in it. Making certain that she was sitting up properly, he leaned her against the wall and latched the door behind him as the hot water began filling the room with steam.

He sat in silence on the porcelain throne, occasionally testing the water temperature with his fingertip. Then again, if it was too hot, the peach colored mare wasn’t saying anything. With torn latex peeled off of her, she somehow had a softer, more effeminate tone about her. The caked filth on her made her look like she’d recently rolled in something smelly; which, coincidentally, she had.

The mare sat with heavy lidded eyes, staring blankly at the wall in front of her. The empty, deadened look she wore made something questionable stir in Christopher, but he brushed it off. Wetting a cloth, he slowly began wiping down the mare with the hot water as the tub finished filling.

“I’m not stupid.”

It was the first time he’d actually heard her say something coherent. Christopher blinked, but continued wiping.

“You won’t get away with this,” the mare muttered softly in a quavering voice. Her face, however, remained stolid and expressionless, and she did not turn to look at him. “I know how conditioning works. Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.”

Christopher actually slowed his scrubbing for a moment. He took one of her hooves in his hands, as if inspecting it. He gradually began to lather a bar of soap against her, gently cleaning the short and soft fur as if she hadn’t spoken.

“… What’s your name?” He, too, remained expressionless and blank. It was difficult to read him, but she had an answer ready.

“Hot Li-“

“No, no,” he shook his head, carefully brushing at a spot behind her ear with the wet cloth. She flinched when he lifted his hand, and Christopher said “You can go ahead and tell me your name. It’ll be just between us. Okay?”

When she pursed her lips together, he thought she might actually answer. Instead, she sat quietly without moving, letting the steaming water soak into her.

“… Why?”

Christopher honestly tried to ignore the injured, downright wounded expression she gave him, but it was difficult.

“Why me?” she asked softly as he wiped a bit of gunk from her mane, if a little more gently. “What did I ever do to anybody to deserve this?”

He actually showed some facial features with that one. Not much, but a little. It could have been anything from discomfort to mild surprise, or something in between. “You mean, anypony.”

The mare gave him a queer look, tilting her head slightly. “What? No, anybody. I-I didn’t do anything, I didn’t hurt anyone. Why are you doing this to me?”

For as much expression as he showed, Christopher might as well have had a face made of rubber. Within, however, was utmost turmoil.

“… You didn’t tell me your name,” he spoke evenly with a low voice, pouring some water over her head. The heat startled her, but she didn’t move. Christopher expected a name like ‘Bowling Pin’, or something related to it. He’d seen her Cutie Mark before it was… removed.

For a long, long moment, the mare didn’t speak at all. He merely continued unabated, tenderly washing every inch of her body as if he were waxing a car.

Eventually, she turned enough to face him in the tub.

“Patricia.”

A bizarre, contorted look flickered across his face momentarily, but it was gone in the next instant. Whatever it was, it was enough to cause him to cease cleaning her altogether.

“… Your name is Patricia?” he asked slowly, pronouncing it carefully. “Are you sure?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she frowned. “Yes. I remember that much.”

“You make it sound like you forgot,” he replied nonchalantly, but his mind worked furiously. It took him a moment to return to his task.

“… I don’t… know. I don’t know where I am,” Patricia admitted miserably, allowing him to lift her leg to continue to scrub her more accurately. The soap tickled her nose, and it smelled of caramel and detergent.

“Do you know how you got here?” he asked eventually, but he no longer looked her in the eyes.

“I don’t know.” Patricia hung her head, and he poured more hot water down her back. “I-I woke up, um… in a forest, I think. Before that… nothing.”

“Do you think you might have amnesia?”

“Maybe.” She said quietly, the still and sickly pallor falling back over her equine face. However, she sounded like she was ready to cry again. “My head hurts. I… I hurt so, so much.”

Christopher spoke no more for the entirety of the time he spent bathing her.

He didn’t know what they had expected. Their own personal servant, living solely for the purpose of nightly debauchery? It sounded good, in theory. It was a real, live pony – so realistic that it threw him off a little. More than that; the way she moved, the way she sounded. It was the way Patricia spoke and behaved. He hadn’t expected her to be so…

Human.

It was only when the water had been completely drained from the tub that either of them spoke.

He tried to hand Patricia a towel with which to dry herself, but her hooves were too clumsy and aching. Tiredly, she fumbled with the towel over and over again, faster and faster with trembling arms. It didn’t take long for it to drop out of her hooves and fall with a quiet flump to the floor. She simply sat in the tub, tears falling silently as she stared down at the cloth.

“… Here.”

He plucked the towel up from the floor between his fingers, carefully throwing it over her back and gently beginning to help her dry herself. She didn’t respond, but her crying dissipated into a few miserable unhappy sniffles after a while.

“… Chris.”

Patricia sat staring forward, but her eyes finally inched toward his direction.

“My name is Chris. You’re in my house, I live on the edge of the city. You’re in America. It’s…” he checked the small black phone in his pocket before replacing it deftly. “Four twenty-six A.M. Saturday.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Patricia asked almost inaudibly. It made no sense.

“I don’t know how you got here. You sound a little torn up about not being able to remember, so I’m filling in some of your holes.”

Christopher internally cringed at his choice of wording almost immediately.

Bitterly, Patricia said “I only wanted to go home.”

“This is your home now,” Christopher said bluntly. “You have amnesia, and you don’t know where else to go. Am I right?”

She bit her lip, and remained motionless. Patricia refused to give ground on absolutely anything, regardless of how drained she was. She wouldn’t be manipulated, and he was obviously twisting her words around.

Patricia hung her head, her damp and bedraggled mane falling around her as she fought the urge to cry again. She just felt so tired. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

“W-why me?” she sobbed, her composure leaving her as she sank to the floor. “Why is this happening to me?” Patricia wept into her hooves, as if she could force back the tide of tears insistent on smashing the emotional dyke she so was desperately attempting to rebuild.

Slowly – very, very slowly, Christopher knelt down beside her.

“… Shh, shh-shh-shh.” He hushed her, holding her warmly. “… It’s o~kay. Everything’s okay. I promise. It’s all right. You’re gonna be okay,” Christopher spoke softly as he sat next to her, rocking her gently back and forth.

And just like that, her resolve shattered completely.

Patricia bawled openly, and clung tightly to what she could grip of his buttoned shirt. She cried for what felt like an eternity, sobbing hysterically as her shoulders heaved mightily. Christopher held her closely to him, patiently rocking back and forth as he repeated the mantra. She cried for her confusion and fear, she cried for her own miserable lot in life. She cried because she had no hope.

Finally, Patricia’s loud cries and weeping devolved into a despondent and dejected slew of snuffles and tearful hiccups. She must have caved in to the sleep at some point, because she awoke to the sound of Christopher humming tunelessly as he rocked her. He held the slim mare aloft in both hands, swaying forward and back almost hypnotically. Patricia was instantly reminded of a snake.

Or a boa constrictor, to be more specific.

Coffee cake.

The chink of chinaware against the tiled kitchen table was the only noise filling the room, as neither of them made a peep. It was such a ludicrous notion, such an outright stupid thing that she didn’t immediately know how to respond.

Patricia stared at the slice of warmed cake before her, watching as little roiling fingers of steam crawled vertically. Christopher even began brewing a small pot of coffee, and the clunky machine groaned to life behind him as he sat opposite of the pony.

It was all just so… normal.

As if the night before hadn’t even happened.

A subtle check along her side with one hoof denied that. The painful blister caused from having the branding iron jammed against her flank was enough to cause the rest of the horrid memories to force their way to the top. Patricia shuddered, realizing that the plain man was still staring at her.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

Christopher said it with such an even tone, like he was completely unperturbed by the pony in front of him.

“I’m not hungry,” she responded quietly without raising her head.

“You need to eat.”

“I... I can’t.”

He began to retort, but realized that she meant what she said; she continuously tried to balance the fork between her hooves, only to drop it time and again.

Christopher exhaled through his nostrils, shifting his chair beside hers. She recoiled when he did so, but stayed uncomfortably seated. Grasping the fork in one hand, he began cutting the moist coffee cake into smaller pieces and plucking them up with the fork, holding them out for Patricia.

It tasted sweet, and was a welcome addition to her aching stomach.

After it was gone, Christopher cleared his throat and moved away, presumably to obtain the freshly brewed coffee.

“Would you like some more?” he inquired politely, eying the remainder of the baked sweets.

Patricia considered it before shaking her head. “I’m finished with the coffee cake, if you don’t mind.”

Christopher nodded wordlessly, offering her a napkin.

“I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” He responded blandly, pouring two small ceramic mugs with the strong liquid. Christopher silently held up a small canister of sugar questioningly, and after a moment, Patricia nodded. She watched as the crystals dissipated into the drink, and the added cream gave the coffee a silky, smooth taste.

“This is insane.”

Patricia spoke her mind freely, if only because nobody else seemed to notice just how crazy all of this was.

“No,” Chris shook his head slowly. “This is coffee.”

Her brows furrowed angrily, and she pushed the mug away. “Stop toying with me. Is this a game to you? Is that it?”

He chose his words carefully, pondering each one. “Is it a crime to show a little hospitality to a house guest?”

If anything, this only served to make her more upset.

“You mean, prisoner.” She spat, glowering at him. Completely blank faced, Chris drank deeply from his coffee without dropping his gaze.

“You are not a prisoner,” he said quietly. “You’re actually very lucky that we found you at all. You probably would have been dead by now if it weren’t for us.”

“I’m already dead.” Patricia whispered sullenly. “I’m dead, and I’m in Hell.”

“You mean, ‘Tartarus’.”

“I know what I said.”

The odd, flickering look passed over Christopher’s face once more; a single shred of uncertainty, a shadow of doubt. Changing the subject, he asked “What makes you think you’re dead in Hell?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because all I’ve known since I woke up is suffering. Did that not occur to you?”

He suddenly wished she would look away from him.

Or stare with anything but that horrible, pained expression. No anger, no hate. Only sorrow.

“… Patricia’s an awfully strange name for a pony,” he said as he finished off his coffee. Anything to keep the topic changing, to keep the conversation away from where it needed to be.

A conversation with a pony. The very idea…

“I don’t pick and choose.” Patricia said simply, nudging her half-full mug left and right in front of her with one hoof. “I could remember it when I woke up. Nothing else.”

“Nothing at all? Not even what Equestria is like?”

“Never heard of him.” Patricia shook her head.

“It’s a place,” Christopher explained. “I thought you might have… I don’t know. Come from there, I guess.”

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head again. It seemed to be a strange habit she was developing.

“It just seems like the obvious answer,” he replied bluntly. “You know. Like something out of a story.”

That statement only served to solidify her opinion that he was clearly out of his mind.

Then again, as Patricia rubbed the flats of her own front hooves together again, it occurred to her that maybe ‘sanity’ was subjective.

Pony.

“… You don’t have to do this.” Patricia said sadly, shaking her head. “You could – couldn’t you just… let me go? I-I won’t tell anyone. I’ll just go away, and nobody will know.”

“I’m not holding you here against your will.”

Patricia blinked in surprise, waiting. She expected him to laugh cruelly, denying her exit or scoff at her bargaining for freedom. The fact that he was basically handing it to her caught her off guard.

“… There’s the door,” he nodded out the kitchen. “I won’t stop you.”

… I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or not.

Her eyes narrowed, and she thought quickly. “… You mean it?”

“Sure.” Chris shrugged halfheartedly, suddenly very interested in a stain on the table. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Best of luck surviving in a world like this one. By the way, don’t let Charlie bite you on the way out. He’s got a pretty long chain by the fence.”

Patricia opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.

“Oh, and have fun convincing the entire world that you’re not actually an extraterrestrial or something. I’m sure that people won’t want to dissect you very much.”

… He’s trying to manipulate me.

“I know, you’re probably thinking I’m trying to pull the wool over your eyes,” Christopher droned on. “But if you really think you can survive out there –“ he nodded toward the small, glass kitchen window. “-without anybody who cares about your wellbeing to help you or protect you, I won’t stop you. Be my guest.”

Patricia stood in the doorway, blinking in the bright early morning sunlight.

True to his word, Christopher made no move to stop her.

She balanced shakily on the entryway, peering out across the yard. A small stone path cut through it, ending at a picketed wooden fence. Next to the gate lay an alert Rottweiler, who’s ears perked up when she stepped outside.

She was outside.

She was outside.

Patricia found that she was beginning to hyperventilate from a sudden sense of panic.

She was still in the doorway; it was just a short little run to the gate, and past the dog. Just a little jaunt, a quick little trot, and then she was home free.

If she knew where home was.

Or what had happened to her.

Or who she really was.

Christopher closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nostrils as he savored the scent of the coffee. The familiar latch of the door closing, followed by absolute silence greeted his ears.

Letting all of his breath out into a heavy, drawn out sigh, Christopher held the mug in both hands as he bowed his head and basked in the silence.

“… I’ll have some more of that coffee cake, if you don’t mind.”