My name is Fluttershy and I am not a monster.

A monster doesn’t live in a cottage with adorable critters to take care of. A monster doesn’t eat a bowl of strawberry ice cream when she's had a bad day. A monster wouldn’t give up a multi-million bit modeling career for Rarity’s feelings that one time. A monster doesn’t have a group of kind, understanding friends.

A monster does keep secrets, though. Everypony keeps secrets. It’s only natural, y’know? Sometimes mommies and daddies need to keep secrets because they want to keep their foal believing in Santa Hooves for a little bit longer. Sometimes ponies keep secrets from a friend because they’re throwing a surprise party. Secrets aren’t evil. They aren’t a mortal sin. Ponies create secrets for a reason. Their… uh, job is to… umm… protect… things. Yes, protect things. Secrets are meant to protect things.

The sun sure is hot today. Bright, too. Had to get out my sunglasses to go grocery shopping. Have you seen my sunglasses? They’re really cute. They’re shaped like a couple of rose-tinted hearts. Rarity says that they’re quite a bit on the tacky side, but I don’t mind. I feel pretty when I wear them.

It’s now when I get to the greatest challenge of the grocery trip: The produce section of the marketplace. The smell it expels. The fat, plump watermelons. The pears that are practically bursting with sweet, tangy nectar. Tomatoes being sold by the slice. And… apples. Juicy, succulent apples. I would DIE for an apple right now.

It’s a good thing that nopony’s noticing the tissues stuffed in my nostrils.

Still, Angel wrote on the shopping list that we need more carrots. Plus extra lettuce. I take a in a deep breath in through my mouth, and march in without fear. Well, maybe an iota of fear. Maybe ten iotas. Talking to other ponies always made me a teensy bit squeamish. How much IS an iota of fear, anyway?

Ugh, I’m starting to sound like Pinkie Pie. I’m getting sidetracked. Gotta stay focused; keep the goal in mind. Carrots. I need carrots. Not peaches, not grapefruits, not… ap-p-p-ples, CARROTS. For Angel. Stay strong for Angel, Fluttershy. Just look for a good price on…

Dear Celestia.

40% percent off.

CANTALOPES ARE 40% OFF! I MUST HAVE THEM. I MUST HAVE THEM ALL.

At first, I gallop toward the stand like a rabid animal. Then, catching myself halfway there, I try to pass myself off as a mild-mannered equine being by pulling off a slightly fast-paced power-walk. Unfortunately, there was a line even before I spotted the cantaloupe stand. With each customer that’s before me, that very scumbag prances off with a saddlebag full of cantaloupes. My cantaloupes. I stand in line like an idiot, fuming with envy and hunger.

“YOU CUT IN LINE, I’LL TAKE WHAT’S MINE!” echoes Iron Will’s voice in the back of my head. Rhymes have a way of sticking around like that. Thing is, I know that nopony’s cut in line. They were here before me. It’s only fair. Wait your turn; that’s what they taught in kindergarten. Act like a normal pony. Act like a normal pony. You ARE a normal pony.

What seems like eons pass, and my stomach seems obsessed with growling. I’m surprised that a miniature humpback whale isn’t living inside me. I drag my hooves when it’s finally my turn, exhausted by restraining myself from murdering everypony to get to the front early. When I meet the literal fruits of my labor, I feel like I could drop dead.

There’s only five melons left.

…Still worth it.

I’m back on my doorstep and the setting sun seems almost as tired as me. It appears to lazily sink behind one of the many mountain ranges surrounding Ponyville, Celestia letting it drop like a melting ball of molasses stuck on a wall.

I walk through my door. Familiar smells waft through the air. Mostly, it’s the animals’… err… feces. My friends always complain about the stink when they come over, but I don’t mind it much. Live a few years here, and it grows on you. Well… it kind of grows onto you, technically. I don’t really smell that great, honestly.

It’s not all bad, though. It’s thanks to that very stench that I became friends with Rarity. Way back when, I first heard about Rarity when she opened up Carousel Boutique. Well, I didn’t hear her by name really; I just caught word that a young seamstress (a VERY young seamstress) had opened up a clothing store all by herself, and she everything she sold was designed and sewn all by her own two hooves. (And horn, obviously.) I felt bad that a little filly was doing all that work by herself, so I came to buy something. You know, out of pity. Um, on the second thought, ‘pity’ wasn’t the right word for it. ‘Sympathy’ might’ve been better, since I was about eleven when I took up the job as the town’s animal caretaker. Anyway, the second I walk into Rarity’s shop, she looked at me and screamed like she saw her worst nightmare. She bolted over and started asking a bunch of questions, like “Who did this to you?” “Who makes fillies put TWIGS in their manes?” “Why do you smell like a garbage heap?” “Darling, your coat is filthy beyond belief!” and lots of other things that… kind of were in the insulting territory. (But don’t ever tell her that.) After I could sputter a sentence or two out and explained that this is how I normally looked, she sort of just stared at me; like I was from another planet. Without a second word, she… frankly after that, she just grabbed me hostage. She simply bit hard on my tail and wouldn’t let go until we were at the spa across town. She paid for my treatment up front, and got one for herself with one of those two-for-one coupons. We talked about… I don’t really remember, really. Just stuff. This and that. For instance, Rarity blabbed about the latest gossip about her social life, sort of like we had known each other for years. I blabbed about… okay, I’m not that much of a blabber. But I listened! I’m a great listener. In fact, it’s kind of enjoyable to listen to Rarity. She has one of those voices you could hear for hours. Ever since, Rarity and I go for a spa trip every Sunday.

But enough reminiscing; it’s time for some CANTALOPES! I toss my saddlebags aside, letting the carrots spill out for Angel. He won’t eat too many of them, right? I mean, he’s got self-control. He’ll put the rest of them back when he’s done; I’m sure.

Or he won’t. Whatever. I’ll take care of that later. Now is the time for FRUIT! GLORIOUS FRUIT! OH, THIS FEELS SO GOOD. IF ONLY MY FRIENDS COULD KNOW WHAT THIS TASTES LIKE. SO FRESH! SO JUICY! SO… SO… THERE ISN’T A WORD FOR IT! IT DOESN’T MATTER IF THERE ISN’T A WORD! NOTHING MATTERS! THE WORLD COULD END RIGHT NOW! THERE IS ONLY ME AND THE FRUUUUUIT.

When I’m done, the juice dribbles down from my chin to my neck. I consider wiping it off with my hoof, but then I get a better idea. I make a quick trip to the bathroom, snatch the nearest towel, clean as much as the juice off me as physically possible, and suck away at the towel itself. Waste not, whatnot; as Twilight might say.

Cleaning off my saliva from the towel (along with realizing that I ripped the cloth a tad), I notice that Angel has a twisted, uncomfortable expression on his cute wittle face. Oh, must be a tummy-ache. Too many carrots.

I blush whilst I apologize over and over.

I lie in bed, trying to catch the ever-elusive insect known as sleep. Fact is, I don’t want to sleep. After those cantaloupes, I feel more like running a marathon or two. Oh, and getting more fruit. Then again, that’s really nothing new. (That craving’s actually a little annoying at times.)

There aren’t any marathons hosted at 1:30 in the morning, so I decide to go for a jog around town instead. It’s lonely out here. The streets are so dark and creepy. A month before this, I would’ve been too scared of the dark to go get a glass of water from my own fridge at night. Now, it’s… different. Really different. The darkness is no longer something that lurks in the corners and cracks for the Boogiemare to hide in. Now, it’s more like a big safety blanket, only it doesn’t keep you warm. In a good way. It keeps you cool like an ice-cold lemonade after a hot day of work. A hot, hot, sweltering, scorching, hot, burning, blistering, boiling, hot, sizzling, sultry, stifling, hot, hot, HOT day.

Mmm, lemonade. Could really go for a lemonade right now.

None of the stores are open. I’d really feel sorry for any that did. It’s like a ghost town here. The only sound is the abundant song of the crickets. Ever see a cricket up close? They have the most beautiful black eyes. I stop by to hum to the tune of two of said crickets on a windowsill. It’s a mating song. Ah, young love. Wish I was a part of it. W-with actual ponies, I mean. Not crickets.

I’ve cantered through every street in Ponyville by now. I guess all I can do is go home and try to go back to slee-

Oh.

Oh my.

I seem to… accidentally run by Sweet Apple Acres.

Stop looking at me. I am NOT drooling. (That much.)

Applejack’s a good pony. She wouldn’t mind if I took a teensy-weensy stroll through her orchard, now would she? What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

The trees are empty. Applebuck Season has come and gone, and most of the apples are under lock and key in the Apple family’s basement. If the dark streets of Ponyville were lonely, then Sweet Apple Acres is absolutely desolate. A graveyard for all the (literally) fallen apples, if you will. I look left and right, but every last tree is barren. N-not that I would want to suck any of them! They’re Applejack property, and I have to respect that. I need to respect that.

…

I wonder if the Apple family went the extra mile and got all the apples in the west orchard. The one with all the (regular) fruit bats.

…

*Inhale* “Yay!”

The sunrise is way too bright. Again. I throw the covers over my head. I’m in my own bed. I don’t remember how I got there. In fact, I don’t really remember anything from… last… night…

Aw, doggie biscuits.

I peek out from the covers, painfully squinting from the sunlight. In fact, the sting in my eyes makes me involuntarily hiss. Everywhere, bone-dry apples litter the floor. Most of the rodents are nibbling on them for breakfast. If I’m guessing right, these apples have a good chance of making a neat, tidy breadcrumb trail back to the orchard.

Double doggie biscuits. I am in SO much trouble.

Panicking, I scramble to pick up every last apple, thinking of at least fifteen different way to dispose of the evidence. I could drop them in Ghastly Gorge and feed ‘em to the eels. I could burn them all up in a bonfire. I could-

“Mmm-hmm… Mistress?”

I jump so high, I nearly bump my head against the ceiling. “W-who said that?? Where are you?! Show yourself! Or, just go away please, if that’s okay with you.”

There’s a rustling sound from under the covers. The covers that I was just under. Lemme tell you, that’s not a pleasant piece of information. A head rises from my bed. A big, red head with a cluster of orange, bedhead hair for a mane.

“Big Macintosh?” I whisper.

“Eeyup, Mistress?” he replies in a monotone voice. His eyes are glazed over. Big Mac was never the one for facial expressions, but boy did he look zoned out.

“How… how did you get into my bed??” I ask.

“You told me to, Mistress.”

“Will you STOP CALLING ME ‘MISTRESS?!!’”

Okay, so I didn’t actually say that. I didn’t want to be rude. A stallion just snuck his way into my bed in the dead of the night and I was halfway into a heart attack, but I didn’t want to be rude.

So, instead I said, “Why d-do you keep calling me ‘Mistress?’”

“Cuz you insisted on it, Mistress.”

Alright, maybe I need a different approach than individual questions, or else I’m going to go insane with Big Mac’s insane answers.

“Okay, Mac?” I say in the soothing, motherly voice I use when handling animals that seem a bit… off, “I’m going to need you to recount the events from last night.” Admittedly, my voice was coming off a bit shakier than usual. “Can you do that for me, please?”

“I heard somethin’ in the orchard,” Macintosh began in the zombie-ish tone that was starting to get on my nerves/creep me out (don’t tell him that, though. He might be offended), “and I checked it out. I found you, Mistress, in all your forsaken glory. I yelled at you, but then you gave the Stare.”

Goodness, I gave Macintosh the Stare? That was pretty mean of me. Hope he’s not mad about it.

“Then you bit me in the cutie mark and showed me the light!” Big Mac continued. “Ya opened my eyes, Mistress, and I gave you all my family’s apples in grad-dit-tude!” He really seemed into his speech, punctuating each syllable of ‘gaditude.’ On the plus side, he wasn’t mad about it.

Wait.

“Uh, when you say ‘all of your family’s apples…’”

“Eeyup!” said my brainwashed thrall with a big silly grin. “All the one we keep in the basement, too! You were so happy ‘bout that, you allowed me to follow ya into your bedchambers and fornicate-”

“OKAY, I THINK I GET THE PICTURE NOW,” I blurt out, swiftly covering his mouth with a hoof. I had to think fast, or I just might be run out of town at this rate. “Okay, so I’m going to ask you to do me a favor, Mr. Macintosh-”

“Please!” he interrupts. “Call me ‘Meat-Slave.’ I like that nickname the best, Mistress!”

“Um, okay. If you say so,” I mumble. “So, uh, M-m-meat-Slave, the first thing is not to answer to Meat-Slave.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

“Second order of business is to not to call me Mistress.”

“As you wish, Mistress.”

“As of right now, please.”

“Kay.”

“Third thing is to help me clean up all these dried apples.”

Mac just nods.

“Fourth thing: Go to your barn and tell your family that… umm… a big, scary timber wolf went and stole all of their apples! Make it believable!”

“Anything else, your grace?” asks Big Mac.

“Uh, tell nopony of what happened last night,” I say. “Nothing about the apples, nothing about the biting, and definitely nothing about the… fornicating”

Macintosh cocks his head. “But what about your heir?”

“My what?”

“Your heir to your legacy,” he explains proudly. “You were on and on about your child being the supreme leader of new age of darkness and evil! Don’t ya remember?”

“My… child??”

“Ya didn’t let me use my spare condoms for a reason, ya know.”

I awake with a gasp. I’m hanging by my tail at some secluded part of Sweet Apple Acres. Below me, I can see a cluster of dried apples from the trees around me. No consequence too dire. No Meat-Slave Big Mac. No apples from the basement. Definitely no heir to a throne of darkness and evil.

A lesson to be learned: Hanging upside-down gives you nightmares.

Still, I hang there for a while longer, watching Celestia’s rising golden sun. I will always love that sun, no matter how hot it might get. I am not a monster.

Hey, at least I’m not sparkling.

Author's Notes:

Can you believe that I almost replaced “Mistress” with “Countess?” Man, that would’ve sounded dumb.