/emo/ A day of Miss Eri


                                            >With a scream, you awaken from the crack of lightning.

                                            >Your breathing is heavy and your eyes dart around the room to find the source to no avail.

                                            “It-it’s just the storm...”

                                            >The sound of rain falling against the roof and the occasional rumble of thunder continues on.

                                            >Slowly, you get your breathing under control and lay back down.

                                            >Though you know it’s fruitless, the storm will keep you awake.

                                            >Staring at the ceiling, your mind starts to wander to its usual places.

                                            >What to do today? Actually try to make yourself feel better?

                                            >’Nah, why do that? You’re a fucking a loser anyways. You have no friends and no family.’

                                            >You squeeze your eyes shut and try to ignore the thoughts.

                                            >’Probably going to lie in bed all day, aren’t you?’

                                            “Shut up.”

                                            >’Never can go outside and try to make friends. You always fuck it up somehow. That seems to be your real talent.’

                                            ‘Shut. Up.”

                                            >You bury your face into your pillow and grit your teeth.

                                            >’Though even if you did go out, they’d call you a freak behind your back. They’d lie to your face and mock you silently, just like always.’

                                            >Tears slowly make their way out of your eyes as you feel the pain roll in.

                                            >’Fucking loser, still crying like the filly you are. No pony would ever help you, NO PONY.’

                                            “SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” You scream as you pull your face away.

                                            >As the tears cascade down your face, you remember you’re alone.

                                            >With a groan and a sigh, you grind your hooves into your eyes.

                                            “This only happens because I’m fucked up.”

                                            >Of course you’re talking out loud, because who the fuck cares? There is no pony to judge you here in your prison that you call home.

                                            >Another sniffle escapes as you crawl out of bed and your hooves touch the worn carpet.

                                            >Though as you trot, you feel the pain of last nights session in your legs.

                                            >It’s a fucking curse that you haven’t died from an infection from all those damn cuts.


                                            >Wouldn’t it be nice to just finally die and be free from this nightmare?

                                            >As if, you’re not lucky and you never will be…

                                            >You step into the bathroom and stare at the tub for a moment.

                                            “Why bother?...It’s not like anypony cares...”

                                            >You slouch and take a quick piss before heading down stairs.

                                            >The sound of rain pattering against the glass and roof still echos throughout the house.

                                            >Stopping by one of the windows, you move the curtain aside to take a peak out.

                                            >’It’s dark and gray outside, what a perfect reflection of you.’

                                            >There is no pony in the streets, not that they would be in this rain.

                                            >Closing the curtain, you head to the fridge to grab something to eat.

                                            >Your stomach rumbles and hurts from skipping dinner last night…No that’s a lie, you skipped out on eating at all yesterday.

                                            >Because you’re a disgusting fucking pig after all, just like they all say behind your back.

                                            >With that thought, you close the fridge and turn away.

                                            “I’m not hungry...” Though your stomach complains again.

                                            >You grab a glass of water instead, downing it in one go.

                                            >Refilling the glass, you take another drink to satisfy your thirst and fill your empty gut.

                                            >It will only stall the inevitable of when you stuff your face with garbage again…

                                            >’Always ignoring things, and you wonder why no pony wants to even be around you, let alone talk to you.’

                                            >You set the glass in the sink of growing dishes and head back into the living room.

                                            >It’s just as sparse as when you got it; a shitty couch, a couple of worn chairs, and a coffee table with one leg shorter than the other three. No pictures of anypony on the fire place nor hung on the walls.

                                            >This place is just as shitty and barren as you are, looks like some drugged up psycho lives here…

                                            “Bet ponies think I’m on some kind of drugs when they see me...”

                                            >’Talking to yourself doesn’t help that either, they think you’re mental when you do that.’


                                            “Fuck off, it’s not like I don’t already know.”

                                            >’Then why do you keep doing it freak? Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you need to an abomination.’

                                            >These thoughts are driving you insane, so you head back upstairs to try to silence them.

                                            >’You think that will help? It always comes back, the same thoughts, the same feelings. It’s never ending, always tormenting, always there!’

                                            “NO!” Shaking with fury as you rage against them again.

                                            >Fresh tears escape for the second time today as you continue to the bathroom.

                                            >You practically rip the draw open with anger, your heart beating fast.

                                            >Eyes lay upon the prize, the key to your salvation, an open pack of razors.

                                            >The vendor always gives you weird looks when you buy them, not that surprising, even more so since you’re a frequent customer.

                                            >Grabbing one razor, you lean over the sink to prepare for your habit. It’s easier to clean up and getting blood all over the place would just fill you with more shame than it usually does.

                                            >Past experiences have burned that fact into your pathetic excuse for a skull.

                                            >’Wouldn’t it be nice to actually have those same facts for everything else? Nah, of course not. You never learn from anything else other than inflicting pain upon yourself.’

                                            >With that thought, you slice into your leg without thinking.

                                            “Fff-fuck!” You say with clenched teeth.

                                            >The physical pain starts to grow in addition to the ones you did last night.

                                            >One cut is never enough though, you always cut more eventually. You sometimes cut up to six times now.

                                            >Cutting into flesh again, this time a little deeper to award you with more pain. Not like you ever get used to this treatment.

                                            >As you go for a third, you drop the razor in the sink and freeze as it goes down the drain.

                                            “For fucks sake, can’t I do anything right?!” Your blood boils.


                                            >Rather than getting another, in your anger, you start to slam your head against the sink.

                                            “Fucking! Useless! Idiot! Can’t! Ever! Do! Anything! Right!” With each word you hit again.

                                            >Quickly, your head starts to ache. You know this will give you a large bump on your head.

                                            >Just as quickly as you start, you stop and let out a groan of pain. A headache starts to come on from your efforts.

                                            >You rest your head against the sink and start to cry again.

                                            “Why do I even bother..? Is there any point to all of this..?” You whisper out.

                                            >There is no escape, you know that. There is no pony to rely on. There will likely never be any to see this.

                                            “I’ll do it eventually...They’ll find my rotting corpse one day...The world will go on without me...”

                                            >Standing back up, you look at the face of a broken pony.

                                            >You go over her features; the bloodshot eyes, the rats nest of a mane, the soulless gray coat, and can’t forget the ugly dyed streak.

                                            >Even funnier is her name, it’s Miss Eri. Absolutely hilarious and downright ironic. Considering how miserable she is.

                                            >But it gets better, her cutiemark is a broken heart! Must mean she breaks the hearts of everypony around her with her mere existence.

                                            >You grab another razor from the package and cut again, though you’re starting to feel nothing. Adrenaline taking away your freedom.

                                            “So much for stopping the numbness...” You say with a sigh.

                                            >Another cut.

                                            “I’ll always be alone...”

                                            >The forth cut comes in with slight pain, causing you to wince.

                                            “I’ll never be happy...”

                                            >As you cut again, you feel your will deteriorating.

                                            “...I should just fucking kill myself...I can finally be done with it…And be free at last...”

                                            >Of course you go back to that thought again, it happens nearly every day.

                                            >You pause at the sixth cut, and contemplate finally ending it. Your heart starts to race as you think about it more and more.


                                            >Not like you haven’t tried before, though you always stopped. Can you finally find the courage to end the nightmare?

                                            “No.”

                                            >Of course not, you’re still too weak to end your own suffering. You’ve always been weak, and always will be.

                                            >You cut for the last time with more blood matting your coat and fresh pain to award you.

                                            >Setting the razor aside, you watch your life essence leak out. Strange how you don’t feel it leaving you, just the pain of the cuts you inflict.

                                            >You’ve heard that you actually feel it if you’re bleeding out.

                                            “Someday...I’ll do it.”

                                            >Taking your eyes off of it, you turn on the sink and rinse off the blood.

                                            >It’s still slowly bleeding, but you dry it off and start to wrap it up.

                                            >As much as you want to die, you don’t want to bleed all over the place like some freak.

                                            “Not like I’m not...” You say with another sigh.

                                            >Wiping away your tears, you plant your hooves back on tiles and feel the pain shoot up your leg.

                                            “F-f-s-shit!”

                                            >Slowly, you limp back to the bedroom.

                                            >Just like the down stairs, it’s also lifeless. A small unmade bed with your dirty bedding, an old desk with various books, and your closet that has a door hanging off it.

                                            >The walls are just as sterile as the rest of the house with a faded gray color, just like your coat.

                                            >Shaking you head, you head over to your desk.

                                            >As you sit your fat flank on the chair, you stare at your open book.

                                            >Been writing in this thing for a long time, it’s not the first either.

                                            >So much poetry written...No wait, shitty poetry...That’s better.

                                            >You tried to sell your books before, but no publisher would even touch them.

                                            >The looks on their faces, they knew you were a monster.

                                            >Blinking slowly, your head is slowly throbbing, making it harder to think on what to write.

                                            “Fuck it.”

                                            >You pick up your pencil and do what you’ve always done, write whatever comes to mind.

                                            >The only benefit of this, is that it’s more organic.


                                            >Really should read other books on poetry to get a real feel for it, then maybe, just maybe, you could actually write something good. Doubtful though.

                                            >Stopping, you set down your pencil and read off what you have written so far.


                                            There is no light, there is only darkness.


                                            There is no love, there is only hate.


                                            There is no happiness, there is only sadness.


                                            There is no hope, there is only despair.


                                            There is no life, there is only death.


                                            There is no existence, and only nothingness remains.


                                            >As you finish, you feel disgust.

                                            “This looks like a rip off of something better. It sounds so shallow...” You curl back your lip.

                                            >With anger, you try to erase the words and only manage to tear the paper.

                                            “For fucks sake!” Letting out a groan.

                                            >You shouldn’t write, this is a waste of time, like always…

                                            >Burying your face in your hooves, you whimper out like a puppy.

                                            >Everything you do is wrong somehow, even if somepony were to guide your hooves, you’d still fuck it up!

                                            >Your eyes moisten and a few tears fall upon your lap.

                                            >With almost no control left, you let out a sob.

                                            “Why do I do this..?”

                                            >There is no point in asking the question, you’ve asked it numerous times with the same answer.

                                            >As you cry, you gently rock back and forth with your chair creaking.

                                            “Every day is the same...It never changes...I never feel better...I always hurt myself...”

                                            >No doubt if somepony were to see you now, they’d think you were even uglier than usual.

                                            >Another whimper escapes with that thought.

                                            “So pathetic...”

                                            >Your stomach cries out, causing you to punch it in anger

                                            “Fuck off! I don’t need to eat.”

                                            >It doesn’t hurt as much as everything else at least.

                                            >With so much crying and pain today, you feel tired again.

                                            >You know it’s true though, nothing has changed. It always repeats.

                                            >And just like usual, you sit up a little and catch a glimpse of the time.


                                            >Sure it’s not late, but you feel tired...The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t solve.

                                            “I was better off never leaving bed...”

                                            >You dry your tears with your bandaged leg, a bit of pain reminds you to not do that.

                                            “I deserve it, I deserve all the pain I go through.”

                                            >Pulling your ugly body from the chair, you limp over to the bed and collapse on it.

                                            >Rolling over, you stare at the ceiling, just like earlier.

                                            >You slowly blink; your eyes sting, your leg hurts, and you have a headache.

                                            “...If I’m lucky...I’ll die in my sleep...” You say in a hushed voice.

                                            >The pain starts to dull as your eyes become heavier and you yawn.

                                            >At least the rain has died down from earlier.

                                            >Each day is a day of misery for you, will likely be that way for the foreseeable future.

                                            >But deep down, you still have hope that you cling to, even if it never comes.

                                            >And that hope is all you have left in this world.

                                            >With that last thought, you drift off to the peace of sleep.