The stars are so bright, Pinkie thought with a sigh.

For some reason, she was finding herself falling into a fit of melancholy despite the beauty of the night, and her hair reflected her mood, sticking straight to the side of her head. Even her ears were folded down. Normally her bouncy mane and spastic puff of a tail indicated her vibrancy and energy, but when she found herself spiralling into that old, familiar depression, her hair grew flat and dull to match the way she felt.

She felt so out-of-character. Normally Pinkie had such pep and enthusiasm for everything she did, but then when she got this way, she became so morose instead.

She was alone again. The Cakes had gone home for the night, for although she rented the room over the bakery, they themselves had an actual house in the village.

The idea of maybe inviting her friends over for another impromptu party had crossed her mind at one point, but although the idea had it's appeal, Pinkie Pie just wasn't up for it. She was too grouchy.

Besides, she'd already had some ponies over earlier that afternoon. They were now buried out in the garden. The stench of blood was still strong, even though she'd tried masking it with bleach and a cake that she'd put in the oven a little while ago. Oddly enough, the scent of baked goods was surprisingly effective at covering up the smell of some of her other hobbies.

Pinkie rarely slept anymore.

Most of the time it was because she was so fit to bursting with energy that she just couldn't calm down enough to get to sleep - but, occasionally she fell into a mood like this that kept her awake for different reasons.

Like the need to get the bloodstains out of the furniture before the Cakes came home. Normally she was more careful. Unless she really lost her temper, she usually managed to restrict her blood collecting to the basement.

I must be slipping.

Insomnia wasn't any fun. There were few sensations more unbearable than the desperate need for sleep that just wouldn't come, eyelids drooping and body practically collapsing in exhaustion but never quite getting that far.  

It was now two in the morning and Pinkie Pie was wide awake, sitting by the window in her bedroom and surveying Luna's night.

Not only was she unable to sleep, but she was bored and lonely, with nopony for company except Gummy.

And then, a flash of inspiration.

I think I'll kill myself! Pinkie thought. She at once began to visibly perk up, her attitude brightening considerably as she slid off the window seat and began to trot downstairs.

"Yeah, who needs life anyway?" the party pony said aloud, speaking only to herself. "Pfffft! Living's overrated!"

Pinkie giggled. Her hair was slowly beginning to wave again. Paradoxically, the thought of being so depressed that she had no option left but suicide herself was actually cheering her up.

"I mean, what else is there to do? And I don't really wanna be alone right now anyway ... "

When she reached the kitchen, Pinkie began to rummage through the drawers busily. Now that she had a purpose in mind, she could feel a sudden burst of that old familiar energy.

For some reason, the Cakes had a surprisingly large knife collection. Since customers typically didn't see the kitchen, nopony knew or questioned them about it, least of all Pinkie. After all, she'd gotten plenty of use out of these babies over the past few years. Now, she eyed them all carefully as she determined which would be best.

At last she selected an enormous butcher knife, the biggest and shiniest she could find, casually gripping the handle with her teeth and unsheathing it from the knife rack like a sword. The blade glinted in the moonlight.

"Another one of those lonely nights," Pinkie sighed. "Well, this time, I'll make sure this is the last one. Forever!"

If anypony had been there to hear her soliliquoy, they might have wondered how she managed to speak so clearly through the knife still carried in her mouth; but as she was alone, there was nopony to question her apparent warping of reality, and she herself was completely unfazed by it.

"No more dreaming of real friends!" she cried dramatically, taking great care to pose in such a way that she cast a theatrical shadow across the kitchen floor and made for an elegant silhouette against the window. "No more stars for me to be alone under! No more! I'm blowing through that lid! I'm going ... over the stars!"

But then, Pinkie Pie deflated slightly.

When she'd first taken the knife, she'd decided to make a speech for purely dramatic effect before actually doing the deed. But the more she spoke, the more Pinkie realized how much the words rang true.

"Something's gone wrong with me," she whispered. To herself, since there was nopony there to hear her. Nopony there to offer comfort. "I know that. This place made me sick. All I can see is a reality riddled with disease."

Still clenching the knife in her teeth somehow, Pinkie Pie cried, "It's time for something new!" before rearing up on her hind legs, yanking her head back with a flourish, preparing to plunge the weapon into her chest.

But then she paused. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, but her eyes almost seemed to shine with tears.

"Over the stars," Pinkie whispered, to give herself the last little bit of courage she needed to follow through.

"WAAAAAAAAAAIT! DON'T DO IT!"

Startled, Pinkie Pie dropped the knife. It fell on the ground with a clatter.

"Killing yourself isn't the answer!" Mr. Turnips cried from his place in the corner and propped up against a wall. His turnips were old and moldy by now, but his voice was as clear and strong as ever.

"Like hay it isn't!" Pinkie yelped, glaring daggers at him. "You don't know what it's like! You just sit there being all judgy, judging me! You Judgy McJudgerson!"

"Just listen to me!"

"Buck you! You lie! You just want to keep me here, writhing in the frying pan, because you know they'll throw you out if I wasn't here to stop them!"

"Oui! Zat is correct, madame!"

Pinkie Pie swivelled around, eyes huge, startled by the new voice. She found herself face to face with the speaker; a sack of flour propped up in a corner, much the same way Mr. Turnips was.

"Zat filthy bucket of old vegetables iz lying! Ze only way out of ze pain is a hole in your stomach! Your body eez an anchor keeping you from flying over ze stars!" Madame LeFleur cried in her flutey, French-accented voice.

"Yes ... " Pinkie answered. She glanced down at the knife. Madame LeFleur was right.

"No, Pinkie, she's the liar!" Mr. Turnips shouted. "You can get help! Don't do anything crazy!"

"Don't say that!" Pinkie shrieked, hooves flying to clutch her head, bowing over in agony from his words.

"Stupid, then. Don't do anything stupid." The bucket of turnips corrected.

"I hate that word so much!" Pinkie snarled. All semblance of good cheer and excitement were gone. Her ever-changing moods had shifted once more, and now she was fully consumed by despair, eyes reflecting nothing but anger and sadness. "Do you know what happened to me today?! I was at some stupid cafe and I heard somepony giggle about how I'm just being Pinkie Pie. Do you know how much I hate that? The way everypony just assumes I'm crazy? I mean ... " she quickly backtracked. "I guess maybe I am, but still, the assumptions bother me!" She stomped her hoof for emphasis.

Gummy watched the entire spectacle from his corner, eyes enormous and glassy as always, wearing a blank expression. He was utterly undisturbed by the sight of his mistress screeching to the inanimate objects around her. It had happened often enough for him to be used to it by now.

"There have to be ponies out there somewhere who can help you!" Mr. Turnips pleaded. "Different from the jerks who hurt you! Yes!"

"NO!" Pinkie Pie screamed. "NO! IT'S TOO LATE! SHUT UP!"

"Despicable Monsieur Turnips!" Madame LeFleur hissed. If she'd had a face, it might've been contorted in frustration right about then. "You misguide her! She needs a cure, and it must be taken through ze skin! Let her use ze knife!"

"You're not crazy, Pinkie!" Mr. Turnips insisted. If he'd had a face, it would've been painted with an expression of overwhelming sadness, reflecting the broken spirit of the wearer, understanding fully how futile his task of keeping Pinkie Pie as stable as possible was proving to be. But still he plugged on, ever the stoic. "You're not! Look! You and I, we're having a perfectly sane discussion, yes?"

"Well ... " Pinkie said slowly, cocking her head in thought. She turned to him, frowning slightly, and sighed before trotting over before her friend. The knife still lay on the floor, forgotten in the heat of the argument between the bag of flour and the old turnips. "I guess so. I mean, you've always been pretty straight with me through the years. Maybe you're right. Maybe I can get help."

"PINKIE PIE!" Madame LeFleur suddenly roared. In a movie her proclamation would have been announced with a crash of thunder, but as it was, it was a fairly still, quiet night, all things considered. "YOUR MADNESS DELUDES YOU! YOU CAN WASH AWAY EVERY LAST DROP OF BLOOD FROM ZESE WALLS, BUT ZE WALLS OF YOUR MIND REMAIN FOREVER STAINED! YOU ARE BEYOND REDEMPTION!"

It's true!

"NO! THAT'S IT! NO MORE!" Pinkie screamed.

Before, she'd been hamming it up for the sake of a dramatic exit, not even one hundred percent convinced that she'd actually b able to go through with it, but now the emotion was completely genuine. She whipped around, her smile one of utter madness as she eyed the knife and lunged for it hungrily.

"HEY!" a third voice roared.

They all paused; Pinkie, Madame LeFleur, and Mr. Turnips.

It was Sir Lints-a-Lot from his place on the kitchen table.

"The cake's done!" He cried excitedly.

And sure enough, as soon as he finished speaking, there was the little ding of the oven timer going off.

Pinkie blinked.

She'd completely forgotten that she'd had a cake in the oven, but now the sweet smell of vanilla was enveloping her with its delicious, golden warmth.

Ten minutes later her hair was back in its normal spastic state and she was using the knife only to spread icing on the cake, giggling to herself and singing a song she was making up on the spot about decorating cakes as Mr. Turnips stood by and watched.

If he'd had a mouth he would've been smiling. Crisis averted.

-----

After Pinkie had devoured the entire cake on her own and finally managed to get the stains out of the carpet, she was overcome with sleepiness, much to her surprise. She'd gotten so used to the insomnia plaguing her that it hadn't occurred to her it would ever spontaneously cure itself.

When she finally got to bed, Gummy was waiting for her on her pillow like always. She smiled at him, planting an affectionate kiss on the top of his head. He blinked somberly in response, and she slipped between the covers, snuggling under her blankets.

Her eyelids were growing heavier by the minute. He stared at her, wide-eyed but expressionless as always.

"Today I stuffed some dolls full of dead rats I put in the blender," Pinkie confessed to him in a low whisper. "I'm wondering if maybe there really is something wrong with me."

He made no sound, passed no judgement, and somehow this reassured her. Gummy was her constant. The one figure in this life that she could always depend on.  

"G'night, Gummy," Pinkie Pie said, yawning as she drifted off to sleep.