and let me kick you off a bungee

I do not know why I have chosen to take up interest in the festivities ensnaring the Throat, with decorative flames dancing violently against my vision as they direct guests to other areas, from a pit to a warm stone, all the way to the church. Bundled sticks were stacked high above our heads, engulfing my vision in blistering red that made my body shake and shiver in memory of the very first moment I could see again; it was despairing, excruciating, my head shook and throbbed, threatening to burst like some sick blister. I'd hated seeing, hated experiencing the world in a way I hadn't before, through an array of colours that marked the heated metals that make up the church, the sand beneath my hooves, the cool water of the oasis, from vibrant blues and purples to fiery reds and oranges.

I do not want to be here, but feel the pressure of socializing, of gathering together to be merry with the rest of the herd, where they drink an absurd amount of alcohol until they can barely keep their composure and slip and stumble their way through conversation. It is soon I will realize big gatherings are not my scene, with too big of grins and light of hearts, too relaxed and easy. There is something out there, something powerful, a being whose magic pulses beneath our very hooves, yet we have chosen to push the impending doom aside and partake in childish games. My ears are drawn back as I linger around the edge of the celebration, searching for the familiar behemoth figure of Apa lingering over all the rest, almost tempted to cling to his side as my gut twists and churns at all the chatter around me. The bodies have melted together, forming one hideous mass of all too happy, some disgusting figure with a hundred heads and running mouths, spilling out clashing sentences and bleats that makes my lip curl.

A stout, tiny pegasus is hopping about the crowd, greeting everyone with delight in his voice as he parades about without worry, too merry for my tastes, almost making me sick to see him introduce himself to every individual. He slowly comes closer, going from horse to horse, making my stomach turn, I can just hear the wide smile on his lips as he talks. As he approaches, my words come out suddenly and without hesitation, in no mood to listen to a puny pony greet me with such sincerity. "Buzz off, törpe." That's the end of that. No thank you.

I find Apa in the crowd, pushing my nose towards him to make sure he's aware of my presence. I voice my concern quietly, with slow, casual words that are firm and true, speaking loud and without hesitance. There is a tone of hopelessness in the way I talk, as if this dark aura that lurks within every shadow, beneath every stone, is already among us. He is already here. "Szia, Apa. Ez nem az ideje a felek számára, valami ott van. Érzem. A mocsárban van, Apa. Ott van az anya." I look up to Apa, scarred brows twitching to show my concern, if my words could not display it already. The helplessness lingers over me as I speak calmly to Apa, falling apart inside at the memory my words bring up. I had ventured towards the Marsh with Mamma, listened to her divergent rants where her voice would waver in pitch and two tongues spilled from her lips in every sentence; they were the same hectic minds that had taught me fragmented languages that were not within the borders of Helovia, who told me with an eerie, guttural groan as we entered the Marshland, "irgendwas stimmt nicht." The way it was said haunts me still, echoing through my clouded mind with clarity and purpose, etching the words into the back of my head as it hisses and twists, hanging over me threateningly.

And I felt it, saw it, in the way the world around the Marsh dimmed, how the cool bodies of astral spirits drifted helplessly through fragmented trees, tangled up in one another (es gab so viele), a pile of hollow eyes and gaping mouths that made my spine tingle. I had caught glimpses of them before, retreating across open fields in the dead of night and lingering at the edges of my vision when I wandered alone far from the Throat. They were no threat to me, Kísértetek have never interacted with me, never so much as given me a second glance as they ghosted over their haunting grounds. I yearn with them, knowing how it feels to purposelessly wander through the world without a tether to reality.

I step away from Apa gingerly, hesitant to let him go and mingle with the herd, unable to bring myself to look out at the rest of them with my ears swept back and head hung low. I can feel the distance between myself and the collection of warm bodies only grow as I look on, at their glorious chugging of sweet and sharp alcohol that claws against the throat as it goes down, their playful teases and casual conversation that buzzes around me like a hive of agitated bees. My head is spinning at all their words, catching too many pieces of too many different conversations, almost gagging at all the things I can hear and see, the colourful clash of too many bodies in such a small space. I feel sick, unsteady as I drag my heavy hooves towards the cooled barrels that reeked of honeysuckle and primrose, making my stomach lurch at the idea of feeling the liquor slip uneasily down my throat. I drink anyway, ignoring whatever passing glances I may get for being so young yet so eager to drink.

My first sip has my throat alight with the soft, honeysuckle sweetness but the harsh flames of the alcohol itself, face remaining still but body flinching as I swallow. The second sip is just as awful, with my gut crying out in anguish for me to stop before it's too late, but I continue to drink, hastily lapping up the sugar sweet and fiery liquid as if it might help me manage whatever empty void lays beneath my breast. It will help nothing, leaving me nothing but stupidly inebriated as I pull away from the barrel and turn to face the crowd again, spying the body of my younger sister, Vezèr, swaying her baby hips as if she ruled the world. It made me furious to see her like that, to watch her go about so casual, so confidently while I must be so out of place, must stick out against the crowd of drunks like a sore thumb with my eyeless features marred with deep wounds. Fasz.

I approach her with surprisingly composed steps, getting there just in time to watch her place a flower at the hooves of every colt she can think of, murmuring so nonchalantly a gross greeting to the general group. I cannot tell if it is jealousy that consumes me, a green envy at the way she can so confidently stride through a crowd without fearing the grim looks and pity that oozes from onlookers, how she can just walk up to anyone and act like a perfect fucking princess, or hatred for the happy and flawless, the neurotypical that makes me so sick. "Szia, ribanc," the words leave my mouth thick and heavy, gently slurred together as I gaze at her audience with disinterest, miles away from the party as the festivities rage on in my head and I drift farther and farther from the thundering of a hundred drunk conversations. "Surely none of you want to end up being her babysitter tonight, do you?" My words are still slurred, hollow sockets gazing down at the flowers at their hooves tinged with purples and oranges, blurred and far off but still there before us. She's retreating now with a bundle of more flowers still between her lips, wondering who else she could offer such useless gifts to. What does she want from anyone else? "Nos, te biztosan az ő gyermeke." I watch her go, still twisted over her fleeting interaction with the gathered colts. There's no doubt about it in the way she has slipped in before the boys, taking up the opportunity to be the center of attention, basking in their gazes. It is no doubt she is Volterra's child, with the way she so easily presents herself to them, making me sick (or is it the alcohol? Or the constant despair looming over me?).

I turn away from the crowd now, already tired of the festivities when I've only been here for a moment (or have I?), stumbling and tripping over myself as I make my way towards the church, leaning against a cold wall as my head spins and my thoughts cease to be, leaving me empty and rigid, unable to process the world before me as it goes on.