Title:           Screw Loose
Author:          aaronamethyst
Pastebin link:   http://pastebin.com/VrjhFs47
First Edit:      Saturday 12th of April 2014 11:49:43 AM CDT
Last Edit:       Saturday 12th of April 2014 11:49:43 AM CDT

>be Screw Loose
>have an affinity to piercings
>Ponies never really ever understood you. Since the day you were born you had the capacity to grasp concepts, and you could grasp them very, very well. Since your mind first developed enough to allow you to properly grasp the concept of perception and physical sensation you found yourself devising theories on the breadth of this plane you found ponies referring to as "reality," and in an effort to formally postulate what it was that caused you to feel emotion, you started studying emotion and attempting to break it down to a science.
 
>As far as the ponies around you were concerned you were an ordinary filly, albeit extremely reserved. Taking full use of your innate ability to perceive the world through all five of your senses you began indulging in everything you came across, and you began trying to rationalize how everything felt. When you first consciously pressed your hooves to the ground you took in the act of them expanding and depressing as a pony's hooves, or at least a mare's hooves does when faced with pressure and you mentally logged the sensation the act elicited from you, and whenever you came across a sensation that elicited from within you similar sensation you correlated it to the already-established basis of your hooves and through this sequencing and assimilating managed to slowly but surely accrue a basis with which to extrapolate the breadth of emotionality as a construct.
>By the time you were enrolled in grade school as a result of inadvertently depersonalizing yourself from emotionality as postulated by you you started accidentally adopting the guise of a stoic. You did not let your inability to enjoy constructs as they appear in this reality as postulated by you bother you any, as after having finally theorized every emotion you could possibly feel you figured it was only logical that your mind would want to break something down to assimilate it into itself, and that you were nearing a certain end.
 
>your school teachers began to worry about you. You started gaining perpetual bags under your eyes, and for several years your eyes betrayed no emotion whatsoever, giving you the appearance of a dead pony. Your colleagues started assaulting you with inquiries and emotion-filled pleas, and despite how heavy your body and moving it became you continued to accede their requests and answer their questions as they came, even though you found yourself to be very poor at expressing yourself through the medium these ponies refer to as "speech." While you weren't actually interested in gaining the capacity to express yourself as you could, you always mentally sighed when you found yourself reverting constantly back to your ineffable theories, and to your long-since awoken subconscious. Unbeknownst to you, however, your constant lethargy and literal physical atrophy was due to your fully-developed subconscious feeding off of your existence despite its inability to speak or interact with you. You had yet to question variables that radical. You did, however, notice that as you got weaker and weaker your perception on the world started to get more and more warped. You started seeing black where there logically should have been light. Frequently your capacity for rational thought would be overwritten by spontaneous tears in your memory, and you would start seeing delusions of scenes you have never seen before, but curiously enough none of these lapses in consciousness would actually depict any pony, or any sentient creature at all. It was always a bleak, broken iteration of a setting you couldn't begin to comprehend if you tried, and despite your being able to move in and interact with anything you wanted there you always found something to be fundamentally off. The rules by which your reality is governed applied, however, so you considered this second reality to be a mere extension of the first. You paid none of this any heed and continued crunching data.
 
>Looking at your behavior from the outside of your mind, you appeared to be clinically insane. Whenever you would lapse in consciousness and slip into your fantasy iteration of reality you would faint immediately without any warning whatsoever and upon waking would find yourself surrounded by lamenting and mourning ponies, as if you had just died. When waking from your slumber after an indeterminate amount of time you simply gazed and stared at your surroundings as you always do, always seeking for extra data to incorporate into your mind.
>In reality, you stopped retaining the capacity to utter words over a year ago. After passing out one day in school and experiencing your first tear in consciousness you woke in but an instant, but you were never the same. You stared and gazed at everypony or everything you cared for as you always did, but instead of looking on with your usual dead eyes you did so with dilated ones filled with a profound curiosity. You started exhibiting odd mannerisms. You would twitch when somepony said your name, but not when somepony called you by the nickname "Screwy," which was something a nurse in Ponyville's hospital came up with for you, so for the entirety of that year plus you were known simply as "Screwy."
>Whenever somepony touched you you would act extremely docile to them. You would take their hooves and try to get it all over you in worship, and you would lay on your back submissively, with your forlegs curled up to your chest cutely. Despite being literally mute you were always willing to help your nurse and doctor comrades, as the hospital quickly became your home, and you became something of a sentient pet. You would do as you were told as long as it didn't involve your mouth- unless it involved biting-, you would show your affection to somepony by nuzzling them and would seek love through one's presence and touch. You quite enjoyed your new life, at least on a conscious level.
 
>Subconsciously, you were stuck.
>After a few tears in your consciousness you started finding yourself being drawn more and more into the strange, bleak world you could not understand. For longer periods of time you would find yourself in there, and the more you explored the more definitive it became.
>You could eat just fine, in this world. You could do everything you could do in the first reality you came to understand. Inherently you found every action you did in this second reality to be more.... than the first. It just appeared to be more. Pleasurable things elicited more pleasure from you. Painful things elicited more pain from you. Your eyesight was impeccable, colors were more defined and the sky was always a beautiful, gloomy, runny color. In fact, if you didn't know any better it appeared to be falling, and paying more attention to it would cause it to become more defined or less defined depending on what you truly wanted. You quickly discerned that the sky was your closest friend. You would come to spend hours under its gaze in sheer delight.
>as time passed and you started considering coming back to your first reality as being a lapse things started to seem extremely off to you there. For some reason, everypony appeared to have been crying, all the time. Laden with depression, as more time passed their gazes would actually start to unease you as you started noticing that nopony had eyes anymore; merely black holes in their stead, and as more time passed they started to drip as if they were made out of a thick, sickening ink. It was nightmare fuel, but luckily the more horrifying reality got, the more time you got to spend in your second reality. Eventually everything in your first reality became but a scarcely-put together conglomeration of colors, and the last time you had to go to reality you found yourself falling into an endless abyss. It was well enough, though, as on some level you knew that you would never go there again.
 
>Too much time passed with your conscious and your subconscious stuck in equilibrium like this. You found yourself growing to be a fine mare, and your mane and tail grew to be quite disheveled, however quite beautiful. You had two distinct fringes falling in front of your face, and the rest of your mane flowed backwards elegantly. Your obscenely long tail accentuated your beauty and your godlike appearance, which was well enough as you were alone in your own personal Wonderland with nothing but your own musings to keep your company and as such bowed down to no one and believed in nothing but the self.
>On the opposite end of your existence, you found yourself becoming more and more of a perfect pet. Sometime when you were a filly after having your pupils revert back to the normal carefree size of the average pony you grinned and laughed maniacally, crying as you lost yourself to your paroxysm as you both manage to scare and grant impossible relief to the nurses who surround and take care of you on a daily basis.
>While you never shed another tear and never laughed since that one instance as a filly, you found yourself feeling profoundly free for some reason, despite your inherent inability to even begin to understand the amount of psychological repression and imputing that went into allowing you to walk on the earth as you can today. You start grinning madly on a daily basis, wanting so much to express yourself but finding yourself unable to, and formally give up the curious look in your eyes you had to adopt for such a very, very long time. Your entire existence was now dedicated to pleasure and being the submissive pet you are at heart, and you love every second of it. Your heart beats with renewed vigor, and your actions exude a special kind of pure, unadulterated love only a born pet like yourself could ever exude. Your place and life in the hospital is a happy one, that is, until you bear witness to a canine for the first time.
 
>This creature before you... was beautiful. It was majestic. It was impossible. How was it possible for something so perfect to exist?
>Its appearance was quite... feral, in nature. Its muzzle stuck out curiously like yours, but unlike you where your nose ended in a snout the same color as your fur, the creature before you had a black one, which served to heavily, heavily contrast the absolutely perfect, fluffy white fur that coated its entire body from top to bottom.
>While you were a pretty graceful pony yourself having lived- an admittedly short- life thriving on physical exertion and inadvertent temperance, the thing before you was almost dripping with a certain dominance and poise you could never even dream of rivaling, and horrifyingly enough this... thing appeared to have the power to eat you alive, bite by bite if it so chose despite the size difference between the two of you. You found yourself frozen in place with one of your forelegs raised and curled up defensively, questioningly before you.
>several seconds pass like this, and to your horror the thing looks in your direction and stares directly in your eyes. Your heart goes into overdrive as you start cold sweating, finding yourself falling on your rump with your tail brought protectively around your body as best as far as you could bring it, and you keep you body upright by resting on your opposite foreleg, which you have outstretched fully, as you cannot gain the nerves to move the other.
>The thing start moving towards you. You panic, but cannot for the life of you move. It never breaks eye contact with you throughout its entire approach.
>As the thing closes the distance between you and finds itself satisfied with being mere inches across from your eyes, you stop breathing, stop blinking and stop being able to hear the ambient noise around you as your heartbeat and the thing before you dominates your thoughts.
>The thing crooks its head to the side in curiosity of your person.
 
>You are the first the break eye contact and feel your eyes roll to the back of your head, twitching insanely as if to follow a nothing in your peripheral vision as you start breathing shallowly, and start breathing very quickly. You attempt to resume eye contact, but find it looking away.
>The thing starts sniffing your neck, causing you to flex in fear. You can feel the dampness of its nose scarcely touch your fur, sending your heart into a frenzy. You relent your tautness and sigh in a broken manner as you let one of your hind legs twitch and kick weakly in pleasure.
>as the thing starts sniffing your chest you notice between sniffs that its tongue has a habit of lolling out, and the thing starts panting profusely, incessantly and in a curious manner until it catches its breath. For some reason you feel the observation cause your heart to skip a beat, and that's when you feel the thing lay its forelegs on your chest, leading to it pushing your weak and confused form over to lay your back on the cold, tiled floor of the hospital, which was when it decided to lick you from the base of your neck to your mouth
>between the sensation of the thing's rough tongue on your fur and its padded mini-things pressing into your chest you find yourself cringing and exhaling brokenly from its touch, and as your limbs and body spasm from the incomprehensible feelings assaulting you you black out.
 
>you find yourself being awoken by the sound of... something. It sounds far away. It actually scares you and seems almost deafening, and it seems to be getting closer. As your consciousness starts to come back to you you cover your eyes with your hooves to shield yourself from the bright lights around you, and you notice your thing-friend before you, on top of you, wailing in its own way. You look at it and notice it appears to convey its thoughts by making the same broken, deafening sound you heard earlier. You stare at it right in its jagged maw in depersonalized apathy.
 
>The thing actually stops its noise to make eye contact with you again. It stares at your expressionless face with one of its own for a full 10 seconds, betraying only a single blink from its stoic guise before turning its head upwards towards the ceiling and howling
>The sound makes you cringe. It makes you feel sick. It makes you want to die and live and explore and gnaw and it sends shivers down your spine and your entire body. Curling your forelegs to your chest in reaction you close your eyes and articulate a bestial cry from within yourself as well, but only succeed in crying feebly, coming nowhere close to the howl your friend just let loose.You shiver and shed a tear in envy, and the beast on top of you cries another feral cry. You watch it do it and it stares down at you, as if waiting. You swallow, hard, and try your attempt at mimicking its noise again
 
>This time, you succeed. It is not an impressive howl, but it is a howl nonetheless and the thing on top of you seems satisfied. It makes the noise again and this time you chime in, more confident, and the two of you quickly start dancing with your blood-curdling noises in glee. Your fun ends abruptly, however, when a team of your nurse friends rush into the hallway you're laying in to retrieve the thing on top of you. It whines in response and so do you. It kicks and struggles in an attempt to free itself from the grasp of the ponies pulling it away, and so do you. It barks loudly in indignation, and with ease so do you. After the two of you make it a point that you will not cease your obnoxious barking unless freed one nurse puts a very scary looking needle-thing directly into your friend and depresses a mechanism, causing your tears to flow freely for the first time in years as you watch it render your friend lifeless as you bark all the while from having gained the ability to express yourself, and you feel something pierce your own flesh as in no time you find yourself slipping into oblivion
 
>For the first time in your life, you find both of the two factions of your subconscious on the same plane of existence at the same time.
>You find yourself waking in an expanse of sheer nothingness. You raise your hoof to your head, tired and confused, and scratch behind your ears, flicking and feeling them in boredom as you started doing out of total ennui and a need for something to bide your time with.
>You lived a rather boring life. It's not as if your life in your first reality, or what you now refer to as the "other reality" was any better, but here you haven't much to do. You can explore, yes. You can do whatever you want without restriction, yes, but there is very little to actually do.
>You found yourself using the abandoned buildings and toys in the reality you call home just in an attempt to find the greatest form your most fundamental affinities can assume. As a worshiper of philosophy introspective, you didn't very much fancy allowing a shifting of worlds to take away the very thing that made you yourself. In the first day of your adventure you managed to find and dismiss swing-sets, slides, chairs, chalk tables, desks, paper, pens... and many other constructs pertaining to classrooms and the playground as ever having the potential to be the literal epitome of your affinities. Not one to be discouraged, you try again the next day, and the next.
>In mere weeks you'd manage to dismiss every single extant construct in your reality as even coming close to embody your affinities. The permanent bags under your eyes actually manage to get even more radical thanks to your exhaustive search, and despite your re-experimenting with many if not all of the things you'd crunched in your childhood you found each construct to elicit far more radical sentiments from you now than they did in the past. You wonder why, as you absently lick your hoof clean of the birthday cake you'd just consumed
>Sitting on an immodest pile of stuff you like best, you doze off
 
>You wake, after an indeterminate amount of time. This fact doesn't concern you at all, however, as you got used to the fact that the telling of time is impossible in this reality mere hours into your first day, and this has been your home for well over a decade.
>You stretch your forelegs and yawn listlessly, yet obscenely without a single care for your manners, as if caring about one's "manners" was ever a thing a pony should be doing in their lives. You gaze down at the huge mess of stuff you're sitting on.
>It's actually quite large. Easily seven or more times your height in size, you've managed to put together a makeshift pyramid of things that were considered to have the capacity to be the object of worship for you. Sprawling yourself out lazy in the groove you've made for yourself at the top using mismatched cushions and other soft things you scavenged in several houses you suck on and lick your cake-stained hoof in boredom, soon more deriving pleasure from the act of stimulating the underside of your hoof and your hoof nail than from the actual cake you ate.
>Several minutes pass like this, at least until you get bored, stop, and switch positions on your pile of stuff to play with your joints and muscles in ways ineffable. You rest nearly upside down, hanging your glorious mane off of your cushions and atop assorted objects. You sigh, resigning yourself to having to climb down the pile just to get some food and water to sustain your life, and knowing that no matter what you do for the rest of your days it will all be meaningless, and nothing in this world will ever truly appeal to you.
>After enjoying your position a bit more, you finally brace yourself and adjust yourself to get ready for your descent, when you make your first step down and feel a nail shoot up right into the soft part of your right hoof.
 
>The pain was unlike anything you have ever felt before. Despite not retaining the capacity to even smile or shed tears the pain makes you blink, and makes your eyes water despite yourself. Almost losing your lifetime-long streak of having never shed a tear, you blink the threatening emotions away and lift your hoof off of the cold material you just stepped on to examine it. You consciously repress the sound of the nail tearing out of the object beneath you to remain fixed in your hoof.
>You appear to have stepped on some sort of old, plastic casing. Its form doesn't divulge much as far as to what this belongs or what purpose it could have possibly served goes but you distinctly remember fetching it from underneath the slide you saw on your first day here. It was wedged partially in the sand directly behind where the slide's surface on which a pony slides down ends, as if to be a blazing insignia of the fact that even the most innocuous-looking of places or constructs can tend to evil. You feel the inside of your hoof doing odd things around the nail still lodged within you and wince, feeling yourself throb in an unsettling manner.
>The nail was actually rather gross, being a full three-inches long and almost fully impaled on your hoof. You were a large enough creature that this meant it wasn't piercing your bone, but it was still very deep inside, and the part that wasn't was held back only by the clearance provided by your hoof nail keeping the hypersensitive frogs within from dragging on the ground as you walk. You start to feel a trickle of blood run down the length of the nail and feel your hear beat to the beat of true fear for the first time in your life as you contemplate whether or not you're going to die
>You find you can still bend your joints, and you can still apply pressure to your injured hoof without problem. It still has a nail in it, though. You sigh, exasperated, and fall back on your pile of pillows before examining your hoof, formally
 
>As you glance at the inside of your injured hoof for the first time you inhale sharply as you take in the sight that unbeknownst to you would completely overhaul your understanding of emotionality as a construct.
>You've never experienced a true injury before. You've had the fortune of seeing blood, as you've seen how reckless ponies can get with their roughhousing but you've never seen anything more than a bloody nose before, and you've certainly never gotten anything yourself, as you've always been quite careful and modest with your testing so as not to hurt yourself. You would curse yourself for allowing your carelessness and apathy to overpower the pessimism you promised you'd allow to govern your life, but the sight before you is just... brilliant.
 
>Your blood's color actually seems far too dark to ever have its hue discerned, but after refusing to accept the notion of your blood being black due to it not being as total as the ink that plagued the eyes of the ponies in your other reality nearing its last days you finally settle on it having tones closer to purple than anything. You can't help be stay enthralled by it and everything your injury heralds. Or should herald.
>The nail sticks out from your hoof proudly. Dripping with your ink itself, your fluids seem to hug the actually partially-rusted silver of the nail. Your blood pools at the flat edge of it to form a large mass that mimics the shape of a bubble before actually falling due to your sheer viscosity. You watch wordlessly as your lifesource escapes you to paint one of the pillows you're laying on to make a small pool where the side of your body meets it.
>You take an experimental lick of the tip of the nail to taste yourself. Metallic was what you've once heard somepony describe blood as tasting like, but yours was nothing of the sort. It tasted as it looked, really. It was not be compared to any extant construct you have ever heard of before. It tasted like... you, or your very being.
 
>You've never actually ever considered the fact that one may simply enjoy literal pain; the very notion seems contradictory. And yet...
>You sigh, once again, and you try to get comfortable as you contemplate masochism for the first time. You hang your now damaged right foreleg over the edge of the indent you've made on your pile and close your eyes
 
>You find yourself waking from a nap. You didn't actually accomplish much, and your hoof still hurts. All you really considered was the question, "is it worth it?" And the answer you decided on was "yes"
>You readjust yourself slightly so as to more comfortably allow yourself to look at the sky, and you allow its impossible bending to your bending to your emotions to overtake you as you ready yourself for what you have planned
 
>It took you all day, but you've finally managed to gather a respectable pile of tools you can use to ruin your body
>Your absolute favorite was easily the obscene makeshift collar you made yourself. It painted black, and was made from a portion of a chandelier you managed to dig up by deconstructing your pyramid slightly. Being composed of two rings, a large one and a small one held together by multiple spokes, you could easily get it over and around your neck with a little space to spare, and due to both rings being parallel to one another it wasn't going to block your vision or weigh you down disproportionately or anything, and despite how blatant it is to wear a broken chandelier around your neck you don't want to do anything else.
>The collar would still be fairly loose, though. You plan on rectifying that by nailing it into your spine and your neck. You've already prepared the nails and have the tool necessary to hammer them in.
>The other accessories you plan on destroying yourself with include a butcher's knife, two spoons, several thin and not so thin jagged metal objects that are rusted utterly despite their not being particularly prone to breaking and nails. So many nails...
 
>Literally everything before you is rusted to some extent. Even the most pure of nails have that telltale taint on them, but you don't care any. If anything the rust will make it feel better.
>You ready yourself with your collar. As you scrape the already-embedded nails into your fur and your skin you consider the consequences of your actions before you go through with them. The only true benefit you get out of killing yourself like this would be that you will go out having experienced the meaning of true ecstasy. On the other you will be dead.
>You think this as you ready your hammer and impale the nail that will be digging into the back of your spine, and swing.