The black silk sheets smelled of rose and morning dew, contrasting horribly with the odor of his sweat. The ropes binding his hooves to the bedposts creaked as he struggled, the coarse cord rubbing his skin raw.

“Mmm...there...does that feel good?”

The unicorn’s breath reeked of Saddle Arabian tobacco, hot and rapid in his ear. The heavy weight pinning him down shifted, and he let out what little breath he was allowed in a scream: it felt as though a hot poker was piercing his innards. He clamped his jaws together in an attempt to hold back his cries, futilely fighting back as the hot poker was slammed into him with greater and greater force. But the weight pinning him down was too great, the ropes tied too securely.

An intense heat and pressure was stirring in the pit of his belly, growing and growing with every thrust, crushing the breath out of him, boiling his blood. His ears were ringing, his head was spinning, and his stomach was heaving like he was on the deck of a ship in the storm. He felt like he was going to burst...and then the floods washed over him, and he knew nothing except that he was drowning, and he was screaming…

With a gasp, Phillip Finder snapped awake. The first thing he was aware of was that he was in a bed. With a cry, he tore himself out of the bed and tumbled onto the floor; this led him to realize that he wasn’t tied down. Panting, he looked around to examine his surroundings.

The walls around him were not stone and brick: they were wood, painted pale brown, and sunlight streamed through a curtained window to his right. The bed wasn’t a grand four-poster with crimson and black sheets, but a simple double bed with pale blue sheets that were currently laying in a tangle at the foot of a bed from his panicked flight. The clock on the bedside table told him that it was almost nine thirty in the morning. A pair of dressers stood before the far wall, one older and scratched, the other newer, the stain on the wood still glossy. An old and dented but brightly polished saxophone lay in an open carrying case in the corner, surrounded by several pages of hoofwritten sheet music.

Phillip sucked in several deep breaths, commanding his pounding heart to settle. Home. He was in his home, 221 B Boulevard, Ponyville, and not held captive in an abbey in Canterlot. He was safe here...he wasn’t being…

He coughed in an attempt to get the taste of bile out of his throat and shook his head. Looking around the room once more, he realized that there was something missing. Sitting on one of the dressers was a golden ring, polished and bright, attached to a golden chain. The opposite dresser should have had a ring of its own atop it.

A knot of panic formed itself in his gut, but Phillip forced it down. Sniffing, he detected the odor of coffee. Taking his own ring off his dresser and placing it over his head, he followed the trail out of his room and into the kitchen.

A mare was sitting at the table, her back to him, nursing a pot of jet black coffee. Her grayscale mane was in the disarray that came from a late morning, but it still seemed to shine like gossamer threads in the midmorning sunlight that filtered through the window. Hearing his hoofsteps, she turned around to greet him. Her rose-colored eyes lit up with pleasure as they focused on him, and Phillip felt his spirits rise.

“I thought you were going to sleep later,” Daring Do commented, standing up. The engagement ring around the chain bounced against her chest, blending wonderfully with her golden coat.

Phillip smiled and greeted her with a kiss. She started in surprise, then kissed him back, reaching up to run a hoof through his mane. Her lips tasted of coffee and milk.

“Can’t stay in bed all day,” he smiled.

“We could if you wanted to,” Daring smirked, wiggling her hips.

The sight would normally send heat rushing up to Phillip’s face and give him cause to squirm. Instead, he felt a cold clenching in between his hind legs, and his stomach twisted once more. He forced a smile onto his face and walked around her. “What’s for brekkie?”

The flirtatious smile vanished instantly from Daring’s face and she reached out, stopping him. “You had another dream, didn’t you?” she asked.

A denial rose to his lips immediately, but was paused by the logic that he should be able and willing to trust his future wife...as well as the years of experience having taught him that trying to lie to her was an exercise in futility.

“Yes,” he admitted without looking at her.

Daring sighed. “Are you going to that therapist?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

Daring sucked in a breath like she was about to say something, but remained quiet. “Well...I hope that she helps.”

“She does,” Phil nodded, plucking a loaf of bread from the pantry and loading three slices into the toaster. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Don’t you have PT today?”

“You trying to get rid of me?” Daring asked with a trace of her old smile again.

Phillip turned around and reached out towards her, placing his hoof on a scar on Daring’s chest. Amidst the virtual map of dull red marks on her body, this small, roughly circular spot of stippled black and burnished red-bronze might have gone unnoticed. But this bullet mark was the most recent of her wounds. And the most serious.

“Daring, you almost died,” Phillip said quietly.

She took his hoof and squeezed it firmly. “You don’t have to remind me of that,” she replied seriously.

Phillip swallowed, his mouth convulsing as he tried to think of something else to say. Daring silenced him by pulling his hoof up to her cheek. He stroked her cheek and leaned in close, pressing his forehead against hers. They simply stood there for a few moments, listening to each other’s breathing.

“Hey, you’re not gonna lose me, okay, Phil?” Daring reassured him softly, softly rubbing her cheek against his. “I got shot, and I still came home to you. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

“It’s a habit,” Phil replied quietly. “Somepony had to worry about you in the past.”

She drew back and gave him a light punch in the shoulder in mock offense. He flinched away from her, half-smiling, relishing this feeling of being...normal, of being at ease.

“Hey, Phil?” Daring asked.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Your toast is burning.”

Phillip turned around and noticed wisps of smoke rising from the toaster. He leapt forward and turned the toaster off, causing his partially burnt toast to pop up. Sighing, he spread some raspberry jam on his bread and set to breakfast as Daring exited the room. She returned a minute later, her hair and tail both done up in a tight bun, her eyes hidden behind her red-rimmed reading glasses, wearing a long pale green jacket that hid her wings and covered her flanks. The disguise made her seem older than she really was, and more importantly, much more forgettable.

“Okay,” ‘Irene Alibi’ declared. “I have PT, and you have that therapy appointment.” She smiled at him. “Somepony has to worry about you, too.”

Phillip bit down on his toast and grimaced slightly at the clash of sweet raspberry and crunchy, burnt wheat on his tongue. “Right.”

She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and exited. He heard the door open, and his heart suddenly cried out in his chest for her to come back, to not leave him alone again...yet, as soon as the moment came, the door closed to announce her departure.

He looked down at his breakfast, suddenly no longer hungry. Years ago, empty homes and hours of silence hadn’t bothered him in the slightest. Now, the quietness ached, as though a part of him had been cut out without him initially noticing. Despite his lack of appetite, he finished off his breakfast, washed it down with a glass of milk, then went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his mane.

When he came out, he realized that it was almost time for him to leave for his own appointment with Doctor Breeze. Which necessitated his putting on clothes. He walked back into his bedroom and over to his dresser. Opening up the top drawer, he pulled out a simple pale blue short-sleeved shirt and put it on, ensuring that it covered all of the scars that crisscrossed his own torso.

Walking over to the closet, he opened it up and searched amidst the few suits and coats he owned for his vest and his hat. He frowned as they failed to reveal themselves. Where did he put—?

With a jolt like a sledgehammer impact, he remembered. He had lost them both. Zugzwang had thrown them into the fire...right before he...he…

His heart rate accelerated in moments and the room spun violently beneath his hooves. Leaning against the wall, he struggled to keep his footing as the wave of fragmented memories and terrible sensations washed over him.

Breathe. Breathe. You’re not there anymore.

He sucked in air, closing his eyes to try to reduce the spinning. Slowly, the flood receded and he resurfaced in the present. Trying not to vomit his breakfast back up, he selected a hooded green jacket and put it on as he exited the house.

Outside, Ponyville was enjoying early spring. Warm, sun-kissed air danced through his mane and tail, and bird song rang in his ears. A few ponies milled about the streets, all of them in groups of two or more, all of them with bright smiles upon their faces. Phillip checked carefully to ensure that none of them paid him any heed before beginning his journey. He walked quickly and quietly down the street, casting his awareness ever about for any sign of anypony attempting to get too close.

The whole time, his stomach continued to churn, but now from more than mere nausea. Next Chapter: Part 2: Tortured Estimated time remaining: 9 Minutes