What you and your boggart share cannot be called love by any stretch of the imagination- at least not on your side. On most days, you consider her a pest. On the worst of days, you hate her to her very core. On the best, she is but a tool of war. But she? Oh, she loves you. At least, she thinks she does. She has lived her entire life bonded to you, has known nothing but your twisted mind and your drug-fueled thoughts. She has grown under your heavy hand, feeling your mental wrath when she displeases you and living for those moments when she earns your praise.

Stockholm Syndrome. She does not know the word, but she embodies it in the moment that she hears growls in the distance. You are her captor, her punisher, her abuser. You are cruel, sometimes unnecessarily, and you are isolated. You isolated her, made her meek and subservient. Still, for all your drawbacks, she loves you to no end. With her mind as scrambled as yours is by the moon goddess’ quest, the tiny puppy growls become the sounds of a bear approaching. Instinctively, as the mare and her pup crest the hill, the boggart launches an attack.

Rocks from the beach, about four or five, go flying through the air, headed specifically towards the growing pup (who appears to be an adult-sized wolf to stud and his invisible companion). Her concern and the mare’s voice draw you back to consciousness, your draft-sized head rolling up erratically and your massive hooves flailing as you try to right yourself. You haven’t forgotten the quick-sand, but you’re not to be taken lying down. Oxy. she knows your name. Who is she, who is she?

Your eyes flutter, your body flails, but finally you find your brain- barely. With a few more blinks, you realize who it is. “Pastel,” you drawl, your tongue thick in your mouth. Intoxication is like being home, but after too many months of detox and then finally being clean, you forgot how vulnerable it makes you. With massive effort, as the quicksand still swirls around your hooves, you throw your body up until you are standing. “Things changed,” you state to her. You haven’t forgotten. Not her, not the chaos, but for once you have found something more important than your silly whims. “I have Snowflake now.”

Clear? No, not at all, but you’re still wary of the massive wolf that walks at her side. With one ear to Pastel and one ear to her bitch, you feel the quicksand swelling up around your limbs, pulling you down. Shifting slowly to keep yourself from drowning entirely, body swaying and head bobbing from your intoxication, you wonder what comes next.

we all look for ways to make the pain go away