To whom it may concern:

My name is Stormwatcher. I imagine you were introduced to me as “the stallion that lives in the corner apartment,” or perhaps “oh yeah, that pegasus. I know him. Kind of.”

I lived here in Manehattan all my life, and in spite of what the name might suggest, I never worked in weather. My cutie mark was always a bit of a puzzle to my parents, honestly. It’s a spyglass if you don’t know what it is yet. What in Equestria was I going to do with that, they wondered. Having a talent of spying things doesn’t really help in everyday life.

But while they wondered, I always had an inkling of an idea.

Ponies have always fascinated me. You see, my parents were always very sweet and gentle in our home, but out in the city they were just as gruff and mean-spirited as any other pony walking Manehattan’s streets. I once saw my father kick at a homeless mare who asked him for a spare bit. The same stallion that fed me and gave me a home wouldn’t give a single coin to a pony that needed it more than he did.

What’s more, I still remember the look on the mare’s face. Like she expected to be kicked.

I thought on that day for a very long time. How could a mare simply asking for the means to survive expect to be met with violence and pain? The answer was obvious: she had been kicked before.

This was a revelation to me. I had some experience with school bullies at this point in my life, but I had never imagined an adult would be capable of the same kind of behavior. But the evidence was clear. My own father had shown it right in front of me.

So began my personal study into the behavior of ponies. I was crude at first, using the same kind of stink bombs and firecrackers the class clowns all used, but I learned something new from all these experiments. Ponies weren’t hiding a bully inside themselves. They were hiding everything inside themselves.

Throw a stink bomb into a restaurant, and even the most composed maitre d’ would curse to the heavens. Launch a few bottle rockets at a wedding in the park, and the groom might just shove his bride out of the way as he dives for cover. Grope a mare’s flank on a crowded street, and she will slap every stallion in reach.

I think I made a couple break up by doing that, actually. At least, that’s what the mare screamed. Her fury was beautiful.

I wonder what became of them now, as I write this. Did she forgive him for something he didn’t do? Did she ever believe he didn’t do it? Are they married now with children? Or what children did I stop from being born with my actions?

That never bothered me before. They were still alive, weren’t they? I copped a feel on a pretty mare, and whatever happened next was up to them.

I loved it. Absolutely loved it. It was art, to me. Some ponies read books, others listen to music, or admire paintings. Some ponies create those things to be enjoyed. I did both. I made my chaos, and I reveled in it. Nothing ever made me laugh so hard. The bigger the better.

And nothing was bigger than the fire on Seventh Street last week.

That was me. I read in the papers that the fire spread inside the walls of the building. I don’t know how that happened. I started it on the roof. I swear.

It was on the roof. It would burn, someone would detect it, and everypony would run screaming into the street. The fire ponies would put it out, and that would be it. That was supposed to be it. I swear.

They’re dead. Six. And more are still buried in the ruins. I didn’t want to kill them. I swear.

I wasn’t a monster. I never wanted to be a monster. My choice

It doesn’t matter, does it? No, I suppose not since you’re reading this.

No doubt you’ve seen my body, or at least know how my story ends.

Burn it. Burn it like I burned them. Let my spirit be torn and thrown to the wind. That’s all I deserve.

I wonder if I laughed at the end.