…

Every Wednesday, Pinkie and I met to eat cheese.

I saw her so often that I practically knew her inside out! I felt like I understood her relationship with Maude now, able to tell somepony’s mood even with just minute differences. I felt the same truthfully when it came to Pinkie Pie. 

I could tell when she was happy or sad, or when all was well, and when all was not.

But I digress. 

The point is we never missed a single meeting. You must understand this: never had we ever missed a meeting for almost an entire year, save for world-saving catastrophes or an unavoidable trip. 

Please. 

I love her dearly.

–

One Wednesday, Pinkie and I met to eat cheese. 

It started small. 

She told me she’d bowed out of an event she’d spent months raving about organizing. You must understand; it had been months of her raving about it. She told me so much about it that I could practically organize it myself. 

So, to hear she was bowing out from it? I was in disbelief. 

When I asked her why, she said it was complicated. She was needed at home, with her husband, and she just didn’t have the time for something so big. Besides, she added, Cheese still hadn’t found any work, and she didn’t want to rub her successes in his face! 

“But, darling,” I’d insisted, “ He should be happy! It’s your dream!”

“No, silly,” she said, and please, believe me, something was wrong with her eyes, “my dream is my family!”

So, I left it at that. 

–

One Wednesday, Pinkie and I met to eat cheese. 

She looked terrible. Please, you must understand, you have seen her, you have, and you know how she is! You know the life that shines through her eyes, that pours out her very core! Pinkie Pie was joy personified. 

And she sat before me, stressed. Her eyes were full of an emotion that unsettled me to my soul. The smile plastered on her face was more fake than the flatteries I dispense to the worst of my customers. Please understand. She looked broken. 

“Darling,” I insisted, frightened, “what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine!” she insisted in return. “I’m just not feeling well.” 

“Are you sick? Pinkie, you look awful, I’m sorry to say it, but you. Hasn’t Cheese Sandwich even notic—”

“Rarity?” Her voice was small. Softer than I ever heard it, screaming me into silence. She looked at me. “Am I a bad wife?” 

I froze. 

“What?” I asked eventually, carefully. So very careful. “Pinkie, no. Goodness, no, why would you—?”

“I should be at home,” she continued, rambling now, tears welling her eyes. “He’s busy, and not finding work, and—! And I’m not. Always partying! Always finding things to do.  Always, always, always, and seeing my friends and—”

“Pinkie,” I interrupted, my tone severe but not unkind. I was terrified and upset but didn’t want to make her feel worse. “Pinkie Pie, there is nothing wrong with having a life.” I licked my lips. I was afraid to ask, but I must. “Pinkie, is Cheese Sandwich making you feel this way?”

Silence was her damning reply, and at that moment, I felt I could murder him.

“Pinkie, listen to me. You’re allowed to have a life,” I repeated. 

“I am?” she asked, and it galled me. The idea that she of all ponies could even have such a thought! Question such a thing! I was going to kill him, I was, for doing this to her! 

“Yes,” I said, and I meant it. Gods, I meant it. “You are allowed to have a life.”

For the flicker of a moment, something sparked in her eyes. She looked at me as though I’d saved her, and I thought I had, gods, I thought I had—

“I’m allowed to have a life,” she repeated. 

–

One Wednesday, Pinkie and I met to eat cheese. 

Or, we would have if she’d shown up because she didn’t. For the first time in our entire history of having the tradition, Pinkie did not show up, leave a message, cancel in advance, or do anything. 

She quite simply didn’t show up. 

I was angry, infuriated by the suspicion that my beloved friend was being kept away by her husband. So, that fateful Wednesday, I marched myself to their home, preparing some choice words to throw his way. 

Their door was locked, and no one answered when I knocked. I felt like turning back, but something…please understand, something told me I must not, so I used a spell and broke the lock. 

And then I heard her. I hear it now, it haunts me, the scream, suffused in terror and pain and guilt and…

She had told him, you see, that she was allowed to have a life, and quite tragically, he disagreed. 

Did you know—well, I assume you must, the kinds of ponies you speak to in this horrid place—but did you know, that a pony can still scream for up to ten seconds after having half his head lopped off with a butcher’s knife?

Because I did not know that. 

That too, haunts me. It felt like it lasted an hour, the operetta to my actions while the poor bloodied Pinkie, stabbed here and there, watched in muted silence as I hacked away at my finest work of art. 

He had hurt her. Do you understand this? You must, he had hurt her, and I simply couldn’t allow it. Please. You understand, don’t you? Don’t you? 

When it stopped, we didn’t quite know what to do. 

We couldn’t get help—can you imagine the scandal—, and we couldn’t go outside and bury him—the neighbors were out—and sobbing and screaming, Pinkie believed that unless we could somehow make all of him disappear, we would be found out. I would be found out, and I’d be jailed, and she couldn’t allow it. 

We had to make him disappear. Somehow. I’m sorry. Celestia, forgive me, but I did what I had to do, gods, forgive me. 

So… Well, I suppose you know by now how it goes.

One Wednesday…