The devil gives her the ability to see.
pony (from Brian Evenson)
Even though she is fairly sure he’s dead, she still stands there, her back against the refrigerator, watching him.
Her chest heaves. The little flowers printed on her dress flutter. It is, nonetheless, what she’s paid to do.
Although it’s never her intention to kill and, despite any regret she may or may not consequently feel, no amount of purely logical or even emotional reasoning has provided adequate ammunition to prevent murder.
She simply can’t stop herself.
Before she begins, she says, “Be gentle this time,” or “Try retain some control,” or “At the very minimum, don’t make such a mess.” But once the adrenaline begins moving around her body, she can’t stop herself. Then, there’s another dead body.
This ought to disappoint her. It doesn’t.
She does regret, however, that she is unable to enjoy the act of killing more.
Whereas her lack of self-control is what has allowed her the flexibility to kill without much personal effort or remorse, it also tends to blind her during the actual act of violence. One minute she steps into a room and sees her target, the next there is a huge mess room she must clean up. It’d kind of be like if you had to wash dishes (including pots and pans, and of course, you have to clean up the entire kitchen area!) for a dinner you weren’t allowed to eat, but from the dishes, you could tell it was a delicious, delectable, gourmet feast.
That’s kind of what it’s like for Pony.
Pony loves ax murders, mostly because of the strength required to make steel go through bone.
Pony tries to deny the legitimacy of her name by claiming that it was her nickname as a little girl — because she’d wanted a pony so badly as a child and couldn’t have one — but the truth of the matter is that her real name is Pony. And the great irony is that her story is completely untrue: as a girl, Pony did have a pony, that she aptly named Pony, even though he was a boy pony, and he was the very first creature Pony ever killed.
It’s quite possible that human Pony loved pony Pony.
But stilclass="underline" when Pony was six or seven — after she’d had Pony for a year or so — she murdered him without reason and without even the slightest hint of timidity or regret.
Other than killing her pony, Pony had a pretty normal childhood. She was an attractive girl, with flowing golden curls, which her mother always pinned up to the top of her head in the most magnificent patterns that would fall down the nape of her neck and along her face just so, and an adorable face everyone had to pinch so it could be a little rosier. And surely, it didn’t hurt that she had such a unique name — Pony! That’s divine! — to fit such a perfect little girl.
Come to think of it, she was a pretty normal teenager too. She did all the things attractive little girls did when they grow up. She was in the dance team, dated a few football players — although she really did prefer the nerdy boys who ran cross-country — and got good grades in all her Honors classes. In all respects, she was the average beautiful girl. Nothing she did excelled beyond expectation, but only because the bar is set higher for girls who begin life with a certain amount of privilege, both financial and physical.
But Pony didn’t mind. She simply did what came naturally for her. She didn’t have to study too hard for her grades or practice too much to become co-captain of her dance team. She didn’t have to flirt too heavily to get boys to ask her out, and her cries never became sobs when they broke up. No, Pony had a pleasant though utterly mediocre life.
Then came college.
She went to a good, prestigious small liberal arts college where she had to face her first truly difficult decision: which innocuous major she wanted more: English, History or Communications. Nonetheless, a decision was made and she graduated in the expected four years with some honors attached to her name. Her professors enjoyed her in classes, though they could hardly articulate why. She had a few more boyfriends, her most recent on his way to law school at Columbia. Pony had very little to complain about.
And the truth of it is that she didn’t complain.
But then came the day she had to decide what to do with the rest of her life. Like most college students who major in the liberal arts, she didn’t particularly think about how her degree would necessarily lead to a career.
One day, Pony lamented to her mother the futility of the concept of work.
She had been surviving — rather lavishly — on her parents’ dime for a year since graduating.
Not that her parents minded.
They were patient and enjoyed the luxury of providing for their daughter.
Pony said, “You’re generous now, but how long do you think it could really last?”
Her mother said, “It can last as long as you want it to. We don’t mind it, really we don’t.”
“But what can I do? I’m not good at anything in particular. I’m good at everything and nothing at all!”
Her mother was impressed with her daughter’s self-knowledge.
Then, almost as though she were passing a torch, she told her daughter how she made her fortune.
For all of Pony’s life, she’s assumed her parents were rich because her father owned a candy factory, and sure, that brought in millions, but the real money came from her mother.
Then, Pony remembered Pony, how easy it was, the pure pleasure. And for the first time in a long time, she felt satisfaction.
Of course, what was most fulfilling about her mother’s occupation was that no one else but Pony knew about it. Her father didn’t know. He’d simply assumed it was money from her inheritance. “It’s better that way,” her mother assured.
So Pony began killing for hire.
And she has been doing it for years. It’s the most worthwhile thing she can imagine doing. Except, of course, that she does not retain the actual experience of murder.
Her least favorite method of killing is by gun. That’s just plain boring.
Pony says, “Why is that I’m not fully conscious when I kill someone?”
Her mother says, “Hm?”
Pony says, “I mean, I know I’m doing it. Then, it’s done and I know I did it. Killed, I mean. But I’m not actually in control. I don’t say: Hand, do this. Use more force, arm.”
Her mother says, “Hm.”
Her mother says, “It takes time.”
She says, “What takes time?”
Her mother says, “Fully coming to terms with what you’re doing.”
She says, “I have no problem with killing.”
She clarifies, “I enjoy it. I wish I could enjoy it more.”
Her mother says, “Why don’t have you a problem with killing?”
Pony says, “You’re getting off topic.”
Pony says, “How can I enjoy it more?”
Her mother says, “Is it because of me?”
Pony says, “What?”
Her mother says, suddenly aware of the conversation they were having, “Sorry, dear. I really must get some sleep.”
Once, when Pony became angry with her mother, she decided she would start her own business. She made flyers with little brown and white spotted ponies dancing on a hillside. Along the blue, cloudless sky, she wrote, “Pony For Hire: Kill & Clean.” At the bottom, she put her cell phone and email address.
She got several jobs this way, but it wasn’t the same. There was something about working with her mother that proved satisfying, even if they never technically worked together.
She also likes medieval weapons. If she could, Pony would torture as well, but she can’t, unless the client specifically requests it. There are rules.