Is it worth it, you big dumb blockhead? (I'm so sorry.)

How many times have you done this to me? How many times have you made me stand in this exact same corridor, wearing these bleached white tiles out with my pacing, while my head jerks in your direction at every groaning exhalation, fearing that it might be your last breath? (Every time there's a pause in your breathing something gnaws at my insides until I think I'm going to start climbing the walls.)

Those machines that they have you connected to – forcing the life you seem so desperate to throw away back into your broken body – wheeze and beep rhythmically, hypnotically, and I can distract myself for seconds at a time by becoming losing myself in their pulse. (One of these days, the last thing that you'll hear will be this unnatural cadence … that is, if you can even hear anything in there.)

Will this be the course of our lives from now until the end? You, swathed in so many bandages that only the vaguest hints of your cyan coat and prismatic mane are visible; me, fretting and worrying, wondering if this'll be the last time that I see you alive. (I don't think I could cope with it, knowing that my last memories of you would be as this crushed, mummified shadow of your former self.)

One of these days, maybe it will even be this day, I know that you aren't going to wake up; everypony tells me to stay positive, to hope for the best, but you know better than most that I'm conditioned to expect disaster. The worst part is knowing that there's nothing I can do to help you. (No. The worst part is knowing that, when you fly out of the ward in a couple of weeks like nothing's happened, I won't stop you from trying to put yourself back in here as soon as equinely possible. I'll be there silently cheering you on from the sidelines, but all the while I'll be covering my eyes and cringing on the inside.)

You big dumb idiot. (Sorry, again.)

What's the appeal in going fast? You get to your destination a little bit quicker? Big whoop! Slow and steady may not win any races, but it does at least have the benefit of not endangering the precious life you've been gifted and putting your loved ones through weeks of heart-rending misery as they watch you piece the shattered remnants of yourself back together. The only thing, it seems, that you're capable of doing slowly. (I often find myself wondering what it must be like living inside that head of yours. Do we all look like snails to you?)

Sleep is supposed to be peaceful, but between your laboured breaths, only one side of your chest seems to be working properly, and the constant trickle of fluids – something clear being intravenously injected into you, something yellow being removed – it looks more like a chore. The bits of your face that are visible contort and twist in agony; you're on so many drugs that you can't feel any pain, so I assume that you're reliving the accident. (You probably have the most highly-developed instincts of any pegasus ever, but even you can't see everything.)

On days like this, I can't help but feel that it's my fault; not because I won't stop you, but because you met me in the first place. If you hadn't pulled off that blasted Sonic Rainboom and dedicated your life to being the best flier in Equestria, would you have embraced a marginally more sedate life? Maybe not, but there are days – for both our sakes – that I wish I'd never met you. (I love you, but darn it, you can't keep hurting me, us, like this.)

A glint catches my eye; the afternoon sun is shining brightly, and it's so wrong for you to be stuck in here right now – with tubes coiling around your prone body like serpents, even if they are removing toxins rather than injecting them into you – instead of enjoying the fresh air and the warmth. Whenever you're indoors, even for a moment, it's plain to see just how antsy you are. How desperate you are to be dashing through the sky with your polychromatic trail illuminating the air in your wake. (I'll never admit it to you, but there are times I envy your sense of freedom. It seems odd that the best flier in Equestria would choose to be friends with the worst.)

I used to cry, but now I don't. (Whatever tears I had have long since dried-up.)

Celestia, how I hate you for this! (I don't really, I'm just angry at you. I'm sorry.)

I cried a lot; I've been teased about it since I was a filly, and maybe I am too sensitive, maybe my buttons are too easily pushed, but I can force myself not to shed any tears for you and that scares me. It feels like there's a part of me inside that's defective; the part of me that deals with compassion has been burnt out, allowed to atrophy from having to stand here under the fluorescent lights for days on end. (I console myself with comforting lies, “If she wakes up and sees me crying, she'll feel bad and I don't want her to be upset on my account. She has enough to worry about just getting better.”)

Some of the doctors and nurses say to me that I look so poised and dignified, keeping a lid on my grief, unaware of the fact that I'm dying on the inside. (Proper snot and tears? That's uncool, isn't it?)

The door to the ward swings open and a nurse comes in; I watch her tentatively, simultaneously wishing that I could be in her position and being glad that I'm not. She clucks her tongue as she checks the various monitors, and I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad sign. Since she isn't calling for assistance, I can only assume that it's a good thing. Next, she unwraps your bandages, and though she's good at hiding it it's pretty obvious that she's feeling a trifle queasy at what she's seeing. (Who can blame her? Those wounds are nasty.)

Blood. Dark brown sticky patches of the stuff. (Ew.)

I shiver. I'm used to the sight of animal blood; I can't remember how many critters I've treated, how much blood, pus and other fluids I've had to clean up in my life, but this is something I can never get used to seeing and I don't think I'd want to. (I feel like a part of you is being discarded.)

Our friends have all gone home or elsewhere to take their minds off things; Applejack will no doubt be bucking her frustrations away in the orchard, while Twilight Sparkle tries to find a measure of solace in a book, and Rarity will lose herself in her work for hours on end. Pinkie Pie is the one that I'm most concerned about, though. She feels everything so keenly, both the good and the bad, and one only has to remember her behaviour when she thought we were avoiding her to know just how sensitive a pony she is at times. (Do I stay because I'm the one who cares about you the most? Or because I'm the one who is most expendable? The animals are the only ones that rely on me to some degree, but even they can do without my coddling, so I'm pretty much the most useless pony in Equestria when you think about it. I have plenty of time to just stand here and watch your body interminably patch itself back together.)

No. (I mean, all of the above is true, but it's not the reason …)

I'm here because, if you die, I think it's my duty to be by your side when you take your final breath. Not because I'm your best friend (I don't know if you think of me in the same way; I'm your oldest friend, at least, and that means best to me), but because … I think somepony needs to be there when something great comes to its end. (When you die, Equestria will note the passing of one of its greatest fliers; when you die, a small group of ponies will mourn the loss of a friend they loved dearly, who brought so much joy and happiness to them, and yes, a lot of frustration, too.)

So. I ask again: Rainbow Dash, is it worth it? Knowing that this is what we go through every single time we have to drag your battered body to the hospital because you've hit the ground too hard, or collided with an errant tree, or misjudged the thermals and have gone spinning off into the nearest mountain range? Sonic Rainbooms? The rush of adrenaline? The adulation of faceless, nameless crowds? The Wonderbolts? Is that what matters most to you? Is that more important to you than the fact that you kill a little bit of your friends' souls with every impact? (Cuts scab over, broken bones knit themselves together, feathers grow back … but the injuries you cause us run so much deeper, and are so much longer-lasting.)

What I'm going to say now may shock you, but I hope you understand where I'm coming from on this: there are times, dark times – I'm not happy about these thoughts, and I bury them as soon as they surface, but they're there inside of me all the same – when I hope that your wings will be so badly damaged that no amount of care, no amount of magic, will bring them back to life; life is to be lived, to be treasured and protected, not to be thrown away on crazy stunts. (Please, don't hate me for my occasional bursts of temper. This isn't who I am, but it's who I'm driven to be because of the way I feel about you. I couldn't bear it if I were to lose you.)

Of course, I already know what you are going to do; in two or three weeks, you'll leap out of here, and despite the doctor's insistence that you take it easy for a few days, the first thing you will do is see how long it takes to get from here to your home in Cloudsdale. You won't consider yourself fully recovered until you beat your best time. (And I'll be there on the sidelines with the stop-watch, silently cheering you on … because I love you for not squandering the talent you've been blessed with, because I hate you for what you put me, us, through when you fall, and because I cherish you for sharing yourself with me.)

You're still an idiot, though. (No, not really. But you are.)