Hotel Room

Present Day

They’re gone. They’re all gone. None left. Not a single feather.

Now you understand why you felt so tired. So weak. You scan every pale, shaking inch of your wings, looking, hoping, praying that there’s a feather somewhere, anywhere, on either of them. No. No there aren’t. You’re out of time.

Your trembling knees buckle from the fear. Or is it from weakness? It’s not fair. You shouldn’t have lost so many so quickly! You should have had more time! You thought you had longer! Another day, another hour, anything!

Who are you kidding? All the time in the world couldn’t have prepared you for this. Your heart’s beating a mile a minute; the fear that’s caught in your chest just spurs it forward, pounding your pulse through your skull like there’s no tomorrow.

There IS no tomorrow. Not for you.

Why? Why are you so weak all of a sudden? Why is it after a whole day with Annabelle and not a hint of tiredness, does this accursed illness suddenly see fit to render you incapable of standing up? You were climbing stairs with no difficulty just moments ago!

You suppose that’s how the disease gets the last laugh; waiting until you’ve lost your very last feather before striking you with such force. Like a professional buck-boxer, toying with a novice opponent until the last ten seconds, then wiping away their confidence in one fell swoop and a speeding rear-hoof between the eyes.

The inner pounding only gets louder. In a brief sense of clarity through the pandemonium that is your mind, you pinpoint a second source of the thumping; the door to your room. Somepony’s on the other side, waiting for you to answer.

Your legs can hardly lift you anymore. You try to tell whoever’s on the other side that it’s open. Or to go away. Or… anything. It doesn’t matter to you anymore. Whatever it is, it just comes out as a pained, feeble groan. Your throat can’t handle much more than that.

The doorknob squeaks. Turns. The door itself swings open, and you’re greeted with the a smudge in the doorway. You can’t even see clearly anymore. Not that you need perfect eyesight to recognise that light green coat of hers. Annabelle Smith. Your dear friend Annie.

Not a moment is wasted when she sees you in this sorry, tragic state. Before you can choke “don’t look at me”, the elderly mare rushes over to you and tries to pick you up from the floor. You don’t fight back against the old hooves that try to hold you up. Eventually, they assist in helping you back to your feeble, unstable hooves. You can hear her talking. Short, fast, panicked words. Sadly, you can’t comprehend any of them. Too much of that rapid thumping sound in your ears. Surely they’re words of comfort?

Annie doesn’t mind you leaning against her for support. In fact, she’s welcome to help you across the floor, one small step at a time, until you reach the cheap hotel bed. Heck, any bed at all is welcome at this point. At least it’s comfortable enough to sprawl over, spreading the two naked, featherless limbs out from either side of you.

Facing the ceiling - ugh, what an ugly shade of brown to cloud your blurry vision - the blood rushing by your ears seems to pacify slightly, if only by a little. Everything’s still a mix of smudges and blurs, though.

“Should I call the staff?” Annie leans into view, speaking slow, clear words that break through the dreadful pulse in your head, “Should I call a nurse? The hospital?”

“-!”

Your first attempt to reply turns into a choke; your throat gives in the moment you try to speak. Instead, you fall back to a whisper.

“No,” you shake your head, just in case her old ears didn’t pick up your meagre words. “What could they do for me? Put me in an ambulance? Give me a different bed to die in? Nothing I haven’t already got right here. It’d be a waste of time. Waste of effort.”

“Is there anythin’ I can do? Anythin’ at all?”

“Yeah. Turn the light off.”

Annabelle doesn’t ask why. The last thing your aching eyes see is the green blur of her getting up and hitting the switch. Then just thankful blackness. You wouldn’t want Annie to see you like this, but you don’t want her to go either. The darkness is a nice compromise.

No ugly brown ceiling to die staring at either, which is, y’know, nice.

You can hear the sound of creaking floorboards as Annie returns to your bedside. The throbbing in your skull seems to have died down slightly. Considering that the throbbing was your heartbeat, that might be a bad thing.

A moment later the whole bed shifts. Annie climbs atop the bedcovers, taking care not to damage your wings - if you could call them that anymore - as she lies down next to you. Comforts you.

What else is there left to do? What else but lie there and wait for the inevitable? You feel Annie’s face buried in your shoulder. Though she’d never admit it, she’s crying right now; your shoulder’s damp.

“Just when I thought I finally had my old friend back,” her barely audible voice croaks, “and now you’re goin’ again.”

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I thought I had longer.”

“Don’t be sorry. You don’t have anythin’ to apologise for.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. You don’t want to be a burden to the poor girl… huh. Funny that you still think of her as the fresh-faced mare from so long ago.

Her voice breaks the silent ambience of thought. “We had fun, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” you think about holding her closer to you; your old flame being the one to give you comfort in your darkest hour. Shame you’re too weak to so much as lift a hoof. “The time of our lives, right Annie?”

“The time of our lives,” you feel her head brush against your shoulder as she nods.

Strange. You hadn’t realised that you were taking shallow breaths until now. It never seems to be quite enough to fill your lungs. It’s making you light-headed.

“Listen… you take care of yourself, okay?”

Annabelle coughs what could have been a chuckle. “I’ve been takin’ care of myself for years, raisin’ a family atop o’ that. You ain’t tellin’ me what to do.”

Despite the dying throbs of your feeble heart, the creeping coldness that spreads though your hooves by the second… you laugh. Something so small, like knowing that she’ll be happy with her family, is something that pleases you to no end.

With all of the strength you can muster, through the black silence that smothers your mind once and for all, you say one last thing before finally letting your weary eyelids down.

“Atta girl, Annie. Atta girl.”