A Puppet To Her Fame

1

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."

"No, I won't play a stupid cello!" I screamed. I started to run towards my room and collided with the chef, nearly knocking him over.

Father looked at the cook and spoke. "I expect my dinner in my study in thirty minutes. Bring wood for my fireplace, and teach my daughter a lesson twenty times before then."

He turned to leave and I was already in tears. I slumped to the ground in front of the chef. The fact that father never raised his voice was the worst part. He would order a servant to discipline me no differently than he'd ask them to change his linens.

There were no other earth ponies at the mansion, just the chef and me. I am glad he had enough of a conscience to only beat me half to death. When he stopped hitting my flank early, my first thought was to beg him to finish. The punishment would only get worse once my father found out he went easy on me. 'Please-he'll punish us both if he doesn't hear the screaming.' I thought I saw him choke back a tear before walking out in silence.

Within thirty minutes of the punishment my hunger drove me to sneak out of my room. I was feeling energetic after being spared the majority of my father's wrath. The only thing on my mind was snatching something to eat and drink. Meals were a privilege given to reward my good behavior. I still recall my giddiness, my youthful exuberance, at having only been lashed ten times instead of twenty. I wish I still had that innocence of youth.

The kitchen was just past a set of stairs leading into the attic. I heard the most bizarre noise emanating from above me: dissonant chords were weaving through the air. I could almost make out the spoken word within the haunting melody. A vibrato pulsated through the air like a heartbeat. I could not tell if they were chanting, or playing an instrument. I was enthralled by the song, drawn up the staircase as a slow crescendo built. Like the sirens of yore, I had to gaze upon the source of this unnatural performance.

I quietly crept onto the last step of the landing and slowly opened the door to peek inside. To this day, I still can't recall the source of that infernal chanting-just that it somehow didn't agree with me. The only memory left is stepping back in shock and falling right off the landing. During my tumble down the stairs, I lost consciousness.

You can imagine my confusion when I awoke the next morning with my cutie mark. Somepony had moved me to my bed. All four of my legs were banged up and sore from the fall. I had a bandage on my head, and felt like a carriage had run me over. As I moved my leg, a sharp pain shot up my flank. It felt like something had been carved into it. I looked down and there was no wound, only a purple treble clef. I had finally gotten a cutie mark in music. My parents might finally accept me! The only problem was that I did not have the faintest clue how this clef had came to adorn my flank.

I recall leaving my room in my youthful optimism to tell my parents I had gotten my cutie mark. Giggling filled the air as I skipped down the hallway. I was smiling from ear to ear, so excited to finally have my cutie mark. Now they would treat me like their daughter, they would love me.

If I made them proud, perhaps I could start spending time with other ponies. After my daily practice, I could go make a friend.

At first, I could not find my parents. When I heard their voices echoing from around a corner, I crept up towards it slowly.

"Just because you buy her some special cello doesn't mean she has any talent," Mother stated.

"And I will not keep wasting time on her! It is done, she has the cello and a mark," Father barked.

"And what now? You continue to have servants discipline her for you until she gets good? We could have avoided all of this if you'd let me abort the pregnancy before your parents found out," Mother said.

"Don't bring them into this. You recall they told me not to marry you? If we can teach that worthless mud pony to be a famous musician, it will prove we're better than them."

"Then let me handle her. You lack subtlety. I will make her submit to her fate and play the cello. . ."

Mother trailed off as I sprinted back to my room. I could barely see through the tears, and sobbed loudly between breaths. Once I got to my room, I closed the door and collapsed in the middle of the carpet. They knew I'd gotten my cutie mark, they'd bought me a cello, and they still thought I was a worthless mud pony. If I could have crawled in a hole and died at that moment, I would have.

An echoing melody filled the room, distracting me from the horrible conversation I had overheard. It was the same one that I had heard in the attic, only now it was played by an unaccompanied cello. I wiped my eyes and glanced over at my cello in its stand. The bow rested next to it, unused.

I approached the cello and found the strings were still. The music was all around me, filling the room, yet it came from nowhere. It continued to get louder, angrier, as percussion and brass instruments joined in. I could barely hear the thundering melody through the ringing in my ears.

I searched every corner of the room as the symphony continued to build. I felt drawn to play the cello. It was becoming painful, and it constantly drew my gaze back to the instrument. I couldn't take it anymore, so I began to scream. I kicked the cello from its stand, and scurried underneath my bed.

I was so frightened that I remained curled up under the bed for a full day. The music did not cease once. My parents would blame me for all of this. They would say I had gone insane, that the cutie mark was a fraud. They would never love me.

(1,582 words)