A puppet to Her fame

Act 1

She left me. She left me and I was powerless to stop it.

After all the suffering I've endured at the hooves of my parents. After fighting the haunting melodies of that cursed cello. After making myself vulnerable and trusting her completely, she left me.

Now I sit alone in my room. The music that has been tormenting me my whole life is all I have left. I focus my eyes on the desk and pour all my attention into transcribing the music onto paper. There was nothing else in my room I wanted to look at.

I did not turn to see my cello sitting in its stand. I did not glance at the blood stained walls or corpses of my parents. I did not look to see her sunglasses on my nightstand.

My life has nothing left, so I compose. I craft our mournful sonata into a piece that will last millennia. Even the last bit of sunlight in my life, cast through a hole in the curtains, is fading.

All that I have, all that remains, is the music.

* * * * * * * * * *

My parents named me Octavia. They decided before I was born that their daughter would be a famous musician. I can only imagine their shock, as I was but a foal, when the two unicorns gave birth to an earth pony. My father, as conservative and spiteful as they came, was a famous conductor. My mother, who was swift to pass judgement, the famous composer. They had long, unbroken lines of musical prodigies in their families. Not even my status as 'just an earth pony' would break that chain.

I was raised from a young age knowing nothing but music. There were no "boring friends" or "depressing playgrounds" to distract me. I had my enthralling books on music theory, wise and elderly instructors, and gentle parenting instead. As an earth pony, I had to prove every day I was just as good as a unicorn. When I complained or failed, I was acquainted with the more effective means of parenting. To their credit, the lessons rarely left marks. It would not bode well for their filly to be seen with bruises or sent to the hospital with a broken leg.

Regardless of the more. . . heavy-hoofed aspects of my childhood, they still found time to teach me other lessons. I most prominently remember my weekly trips to the orchestra hall. It was much more fun than meeting ponies my own age. My stoic father offered his silent support from the front row. My mother would guide me between instruments, pointing out my failings with such grace. [i]'Try to sit up straight. You're not sweating in the dirt, plowing a field. Hold the violin like this, Octavia. Stop fidgeting with your bow tie.'

All I had to do to earn their love was receive my cutie mark from an instrument. Surely I, an earth pony, could at least accomplish that.

Month by month they graced me with their presence at the concert hall. Week by week I failed to find my cutie mark. Day by day my father ignored the cries for help as my mother took her anger out on me. Hour by hour, I was dying on the inside. I was desperate for their approval, if only for an end to the pain.

I still recall the day I finally got my cutie mark. At least, I recall that I can't remember how it appeared.

"Octavia," Father stated. He stood in the hallway with perfect posture and no hint of a smile on his face.

I hurried over to him, frowning while keeping my eyes on the floor. "Yes, Father?"

"We've decided to stop taking you to the concert hall. I bought you a cello, and you will only play it from now on."

I looked up at him and gasped. "But that's not f—"

"Octavia," Father interrupted. His tone stayed perfectly casual. "It is final. If you had any talent, you would have found your cutie mark by now. You will take this cello and play it every day until it becomes your talent."