It was the witching hour at the World's Edge, and Lyra was strumming the strings. The music drifted like the smoke throughout the bar: noticed by few, but bringing tears to those who did. It was a simple love ballad, but the way her voice crooned those words gave it life. Her eyes swept the audience with practiced ease, noting the gruff regulars perched upon bar stools, a few tables with friends bitching about their work week, and one lone mare seated close to the stage.
She was the color of yellowed pages, and sat alone at a table set for two. Lyra met her gaze coolly, smiling with her mouth. Another number began, and she flicked her eyes across the audience once more, returning to find the loner still staring. The younger mare was entranced by the song's tale of heartbreak, her slightly open jaw reflected in her half-empty mug. As the green mare concluded the piece, she could feel her hoof plucking the strings of her target's heart.
The night grew deeper, and so did the music's spell. Her last song's notes reverberated in the air, and Lyra descended from the stage. The lonely mare got up from her table, left a few bits to cover the cost of her drinks, and followed her timidly out the door.
"What's your name, kid?"
"Junebug. I...I really like your music."
"Stood up on a date tonight?"
With practiced ease, the mare let the silence stretch out between them. Junebug gazed into Lyra's mysterious eyes, finding reflected back at her all her desires. Lyra gazed back, empty as the abyss.
A turn of the corner, and the motel sat before them like a toad beside a pond. Quietly, one lonely soul followed another through its doors.
Lyra sat on the edge of the bed, taking a drag on a clove cigarette, then exhaling to watch it rise to the ceiling. Gentle snoring told her there was someone else there, and for a moment, she pretended it was her wife. It passed.
Another drag, and she stomped it out on the cheap carpet beneath a hoof. A few moments of thrashing beneath the sheets, and for what? She was still empty inside. Lyra stared at the smoldering cinders, watching them die.
She looked up, and saw a knife between cream-colored lips. It flashed as it drove into her skull, swiftly severing her mortal coil, leaving poor, poor Lyra lying on the bed, blood pouring out from her headwound, as she died silently, finally.
She blinked her eyes, and she was still there, in the motel, next to a lover whose name she had already forgotten.