When we got back home Dale got right to work. He barely pretended to be subtle about the bananas, holding them behind his back while he moved around the kitchen. His eyes were wide, but his pupils were small and darting around. It was quite a show. I felt like playing along, walking around with a false nonchalant attitude like nothing was wrong. I tried whistling, which I couldn’t so the raspy blowing sound made Dale laugh. Then he cleared his throat, and in his old-mare voice called out for Picker.

For some reason my headache came back. The sudden throb made me wince, luckily Dale didn’t notice. I got myself a painkiller and a glass of water, which he did notice, but still didn’t break character.

Picker trots into the room casually as I down the skinny pill. He has a look on his face that screams “badly-hidden secret.” I finish my glass of water while Dale and Picker gather things for their baking venture, whispering to each other all the while.

I leave my glass in the sink and get ready to ask – sarcastically – if there’s anything I can do to help. Picker interrupts me, “Oh, mom wants you in the living room.”

He’s dead serious when he says it. I see Dale sifting flour into a bowl behind Picker, but this is something else. “What for?”

He shrugs and waves his hoof for me to go, then turns to crack eggs into a separate bowl. I grin at the two of them, they don’t notice.

In the living room mom’s talking with Doctor Lavender. I barely hear the last thing the Doctor says when I come in; “…best to stay home for a while.”

Mom looks at me and smiles. “How are you feeling, dear?”

“Pretty good,” I tell them. “I just took a painkiller.”

Lavender speaks up, standing from her seat on the sofa, “Then now’s probably the best time.”

I step back, “Best time for what?” Why do I suddenly feel threatened? “What were you talking about before I came in?”

“We’ll get to that,” Lavender ensures. “Now…”

I step back some more as she steps closer. I’ve nearly back-peddled into the kitchen. (She just wants to take the bandage off.) How do you know?

“I just want to remove your bandages.”

Lucky guess. (Where would you be without me?) I’m not answering that.

I hold still and let her reach out to my head bandage with her magic. I close my eyes, ready to embrace pain without knowing where it will come from. Maybe the wound will start bleeding again? Maybe some blood dried to the cloth and the scab tears off while she’s pulling! Maybe part of my skull is showing and I’ll need to have surgery for a skin graft!

“Everything looks good,” she compliments. “If you’ll have a seat I’d like to remove the stitches.”

I didn’t know I had stitches. (A lot can happen when you’re unconscious.) Chatty today, aren’t we?

I follow Dr. Lavender to the middle of the room and sit on the floor by the coffee table, where she has her handy doctor’s tools laid out. She grabs two shining items in her glittering purple magic and raises them to my head. I close my left eye as she pulls at the stitches. It doesn’t really hurt, but it’s noticeably uncomfortable.

“Honestly,” mom speaks up while Lavender snips at thread, “I’m kind of surprised that you didn’t tear those stitches while you played outside the other day.”

“What was it you were doing?” Dr. Lavender asks pleasantly, still focused on her work.

I hesitate, not sure why. “Dale and I were just playing,” I tell her.

“This might tingle,” she warns me. “What kind of game?”

My spine shivers as a long thread is drawn through my tender flesh. “We like to imagine,” I shiver again, my legs feeling weak. I’m glad I’m sitting. “We imagined we were knights, or something. We used to play games like that all the time, when we were younger.” I lose myself reminiscing. “He’d always play, like, the bad guys or whatever. He’d be the one who let me enjoy the adventure…” I barely notice when she starts taking out the next strand. “We’d take sticks from the woods and use them as swords or whatever.”

“Sounds like you had a really fun time,” the Doctor says. “What could have possibly caused your stiches to rip?”

I’m lost in thought for a moment, thinking about the good old days. I don’t like doing that, really. It takes up so much precious time, I think. I don’t really know why I don’t like it, I just don’t. Especially if the memory isn’t of an experience I can learn from. I answer hastily, after my brief pause, “Well… We got a little rough. Growing up, we’d wrestle and mess around on the ground. Having so much fun, I guess we kind of forgot about my state and went a little too far.”

“Well,” Lavender backs away, “I wouldn’t say that. Your stitches were absolutely fine, and the wound’s closed up clean. You might have that scar for a while though.”

I look up, expecting to see something on the top of my head. I am unfortunately unable to see the scar. I instead reach a hoof up to feel for it. I wince a bit, but it doesn’t actually hurt. There’s an unmistakable protrusion just beneath my mane next to my left ear. It’s a crooked line, but I don’t know what I was expecting. Scars are cool, right?

I think I see Dale standing in the doorway to the kitchen. I look over, prepared to be embarrassed that he had witnessed my little trip down memory lane. He’s not there, though. I see him rush around the kitchen, dressed in flour. I sigh. Am I upset at him for some stupid reason? He has his own things to do.

“How does it feel?” Mom asks.

I don’t answer right away. I’m stuck, again. Why is Dale so unpredictable? Sometimes he’s a fun older brother, accepting and forgiving. Other times, he’s shameless. He never regrets things he says and rarely attempts to make up for things. I look at mom, suddenly dad’s there, too. He’s looking at me with an expectant grin. “It feels fine.” I don’t know if I’m lying. I don’t think I’m lying. I remember, it didn’t hurt or anything, but I felt like she might have been asking about something else. That couldn’t be.

I thank the doctor and move past everypony toward the bathroom. I want to see the scar, and if it’s actually noticeable where it is. I also wonder if I’m going to have to style my mane to hide it, or if I want to. What if it’s a cool-looking scar, and I want to show it off? What if ponies ask about it? What would I tell them, that I fell into a hole and hit my head because my emotions blinded me while I stormed through the woods at sundown?

Okay, it wasn’t sundown when it happened, but whatever.

It’s certainly a scar. It’s no Harry Trotter’s lightning bolt, but I do feel like it adds a bit of flavor to my otherwise dull character.

I keep making different faces in the mirror, trying to decide how to make an ugly, jagged scar like this look tough. It won’t, not by a long shot. I’m going to have to grow my mane out and comb it sideways to hide the damaged tissue.

Nopony else wanted to talk to me. I think mom was asking Doctor Lavender about dad’s condition, while dad, Dale and Picker all worked hard on my “surprise” in the kitchen. I made it downstairs without a bother.

A little scar like this won’t change anything, right?