When you regain your consciousness, you find yourself still in the dark. You blink, trying to grasp for any sort of bearing of your surroundings, but fail to find anything.

Fucking Fluttershy. You’ve gotta get out of here. You’ve got to do something. You struggle against the handcuffs that hold you. There’s gotta be a way to get out of these cuffs. You try to make the circumference of your wrist smaller by pressing your pinkie and thumb together.

Then, you pull your hand against the handcuffs. You feel your skin drag and peel against the metal but, to your surprise, they slip through. You pull your arms around to the front of your body and flex your fingers, barely seeing your own hands in the darkness.

You’re free. And it was… almost easy.

Whatever. There’s no time to waste. Your hands move down to the ropes around your legs and quickly undo the knots holding you. You reach forward in the darkness, searching the floor. Then, you find it, the book of matches.

You rise to your feet, stretching your tired muscles and feeling the burn on the back of your neck.

Fucking Fluttershy. You’re going to get back at her. She’s going to regret the day she did this to you. You open the matchbook, your fingers fumbling over the sides until you finally find the rough strike strip. Taking a match out, you strike a match and light up the room. Your eyes move to the covered furniture and holiday decorations.

A devilish idea over takes you. You know what? If you really want to get back at Fluttershy, you know exactly what you could do. You move to one of the blankets that covers a piece of furniture and let the match rest on it.

You watch the flame dance and slowly move to the blanket, growing and growing. You strike another match, and set a holiday tree on fire. Then another blanket. Then a couch that’s in storage. The fire crackles and burns as it begins to spread through the basement. You climb the stairs of the basement and shove the matches in your pocket. Then, you turn, watching the basement begin to burn all of Fluttershy’s belongings with pride. This is it. She’s done. The fire’s too far along to stop now. You place your hand on the basement door.

Except, the knob doesn’t turn.

You stop, your blood running cold. You turn the knob again, but it remains resolute. Shit. You look down at the knob and notice there’s a keyhole in the knob. You hear the fire crackle and roar behind you. It’s heat slowly transform the room into an oven. You search your pockets desperately and, to your surprise, find a key in your pockets. In fact, other than the matches, all you had in the pockets was the key. As if you were meant to find it.

You shove the key into the doorknob and turn it urgently, it unlocks with a click as you bust through.

And you realize, this isn’t Fluttershy’s house.

You look to the couch. You look to the rug on the floor. The kitchen. The front door.

This is your house. You turn to the fire behind you, now spreading even farther and farther over belongings you recognize from Fluttershy’s basement.

You turn to a window from your living room, and Fluttershy watches in, grinning in the moonlight.

She tricked you into setting your own home on fire.

That’s it. There’s no more mercy. You scramble to the kitchen and whip open a drawer. All of the knives and utensils are missing. You scramble to your coat closet. All of your weapons are gone. You run upstairs to your bedroom and rip out each and every drawer of your furniture, and find them completely empty. Your own closet, empty. Your bathroom drawers, empty.

You hear three loud, echoing knocks at your door.

The fire spreads, and you feel the home grow hotter and hotter.

You scramble down the stairs, your entire body consumed with panic.

You can either die here in this home, try to get away, or die in the hands of this new Fluttershy. This Fluttershy that tricked you into setting your home on fire. The Fluttershy that has no fear at burning you, branding you. She’s going to own you. She’s going to attempt to break you down into a shadow of your former self.

You have to get out of here. You don’t want to die. What did you do to deserve this?

Once you hit the bottom of the stairs, you rush through the kitchen to your back door, you turn the knob, and it’s locked tight. You back up, and in a pure rage, charge the door with all of your might.

It breaks off of the hinges, and as you leap out into the cold night air, a looming beast stands tall, silhouetting you. Harry the bear bears his claws and growls down at you.

You fall to your knees.

“Harry. Just kill me. Just do it. Please.”

A snicker rings through the air as you look to the ground, two yellow hooves approach you and stand in front of you.

“It looks like somepony’s learning their Please and Thank You’s. It looks like there may still be some hope for you yet, Anon.”