Anonpencil Writes Drunk: It's Always an Option (oneshit)

>You are depressed.
>There’s just no two ways about it, you’re feeling fucking terrible. You lay on your cold, crystal bed in the castle and just look at the ceiling, quietly hating everything about your life. Which reminds you, who makes beds out of crystal, anyway? They’re horribly uncomfortable and cold and not even suited for a pony or a human like you. You're no sleeping beauty, but hold fuck, man.
Meh. Whatever. You probably deserve the discomfort anyway.
>The fact is, you’re useless. You don’t have a job, you barely have any friends, and with the fact that your roommate is a damn princess, you feel inadequate no matter what you do. You can’t do magic, you can’t fly, hell, you can’t even buck apples on the farm, though you did try that once.
>There’s no place for you here. There’s no point to your being alive. You try to quiet the voice in your head that says this, but it just won’t shut up. You feel the weight of it pressing down on your body like a physical force. It’s hard not to pick up some booze and just drink yourself into a coma. Or better yet, drink yourself to death.
>You hear the sound of hoof falls outside your bedroom door. No use looking up, you know only one pony would ever come to visit you.
“Hey Anon,” Twilight says happily. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” you say flatly.
“Oh… well, want to help me with some spells?” she says, sounding undeterred by your morose tones.
“Not particularly.”
“Well, I know Spike could use a little help, so why don’t you-”
“No thank you.”
“If you’d like to get out of the castle you can always-”
“I said no thank you,” you say, a little more firmly.
>You know Twilight is trying to help. You know she just is trying to kill the inertia of depression by getting you up and moving. It’s a sweet thought to be honest, but you doubt she can help, even if she is a pretty pastel pony that’s all about friendship.
“Anon, what’s wrong?” she says after a long pause.
>You think for a moment, then heave a heavy sigh before you answer.
“I’m utterly alone here. Even if I have friends, even if I make a life here, I’m alone. I can’t do anything right and… I don’t know. I guess I just feel like a worthless creature. I don’t see the point of life right now.”
>The princess is silent.
“You know,” she says quietly. “I… if you’re really that sad, maybe I can help you out.”
“That’s nice of you, but I don’t think…”
“No, I mean,” she says slowly. “With magic. I could cast a spell on you that would, you know, make you feel a little better about being alive.”
>Despite the voice in your head telling you that this is definitely not going to work, you have to admit it at least sounds like a new option. What could it hurt, after all?
“You know, okay,” you say. “I’ll try it, Twilight. Cast your heathen magic.”
>You look up to find her beaming at you from the doorway. With every last ounce of your strength, you sit up slowly in bed, and steady yourself on the edge of it. Before you can even ask how this is going to work, her horn begins to glow a shimmering purple, and a strong beam of light suddenly shoots out to impact your chest.
>You feel a warm glow spread over you, starting at that weird dark place in your chest that’s supposed to have a heart in it. It flows through your veins, like glitter, but less horrible and impossible to clean, and you feel tingly all over. Something is happening to you! You can feel the muscles in your face contracting, can feel your eyes opening wide, your eyebrows raising. Like your face is made of clay, the magic molds it and moves it. Your mouth opens, your lips pull back wider and wider, and then, all at once, it stops.
“Uh… Twilight?” you say haltingly.
“Look at that!” she exclaims with a clap of her hooves. “It worked!”
“I don’t feel any happier.”
“But you must, you’re smiling so big and gladly!”
>You reach up with one hand and feel your face. Sure enough, your lips are curled up at the edges into an impossibly wide smile, so wide that it even hurts a little. Your eyes curl up at the edges too, like you’re Santa or something, and your eyebrows are up like you’re constantly delighted. But deep inside, nothing has changed. The world is still a bleak place for you.
“Twilight,” you say urgently, but even your words sound sunny. “I think you just made me smile.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I mean, you JUST made me smile. And I can’t stop. I’m not happier, my life isn’t better, I just look glad. I’m still… I still feel terrible. I still feel like I want to die.”
>She’s silent a moment, and she rubs her chin thoughtfully. After a brief pause, she gives a shrug and smiles her own massive smile at you.
“Well, at least now when you kill yourself, you’ll look happy while doing it!” Twilight says brightly. “No one likes a frowning corpse!”
>With a smile plastered all over your big stupid face, you lower your head and begin to cry. Now you really do wear a mask to hide your depression, one you can never take off. Twilight begins to hum a familiar song you once heard Pinkie sing, about smiling, as she turns to leave your bedroom

...

>Oh, also, Spike was kicked by a deer and lost one of his eyes. But no one cared.
>No one ever cares.
>There’s no love in this world.
>Life is pointless.
>We all die someday.


-End-