We all make mistakes. Rather stupid ones at that.

You cheat your way through an exam, only to get caught when the graders realize your answers are exactly like the ones of the person sitting in front of you. You cook food in a crock pot, making the mistake of leaving it on high the entire day; and now, you come home to charred, bland food. You leave your child to his own devices, only to come home to the house in shambles, chocolate syrup all over the walls, floors, beds.

To list every mistake in the world would take an eternity; and technically speaking, we don't have eternity. We only have about 80 years each. Mind as well make the best of it, right?

But what if the best is more of the worst?

What if the worst mistake you made, was simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time?

The white doe has seated herself in front of the King's throne, the most glorious of sunbeams. Chased from the Blue Bowl by a pair of clowns, this is the only place she can find solitude now. Her head is spinning, but it's her heart that is working overtime, pumping, burning, desperate to free itself from the cage that is her body.

She should be keeping the wounded company, assuring them that they fought well, that everything will be alright. She should be sitting silently beside them, a gesture of friendship, respect.

But she can't. She just can't.

She replays the scene from minutes before, and she replays it over and over; a hoof just about striking her face, yet she doges it just before it can collide with her helm. She had only been there a few seconds, waking from who knows what kind of sleep, and already, she was bombarded relentlessly.

Logic would have told her it was natural for the deer to react that way; her day had turned to shit relatively fast. But anger breeds dark strength, and the white doe finds herself stomping the earth hard with her hooves, holding back every desire to ram, maim, kill.

She runs and runs, past all who crowd together, as they watch with saucer eyes; her body is hot to the touch, her anger manifesting into something that should never be. Growls and shrieks tear through her throat as she runs, trying to wear herself out, trying to knock herself into sleep.

But her running seems endless; she feels like she has run for weeks. And even as she sits near the King's throne, panting hard for the crisp Autumn air, she has plenty of energy left. She shifts this way and that, her head hurting, lungs clawing at her chest as the cold air hits them, her heart not quite out of steam.

This hurts. I hate this. I hate it all.

She practically spits the words out, her hooves digging deep into the earth. Her throat is tight, suffocating, but she does everything she can to hold back from soiling the sunbeam with her tears.

I hate them all. I can't fucking deal with this anymore.

If one looks carefully, there is a flush of red on her withers; in her hasty anger, she had thrown her head back, piercing her withers with her tines. There is little blood, but it's enough to be noticeable.

If I'm going to be a punching bag for the whole fucking world...

She rises from where she sits, looking long and hard at the sunbeam; so many thoughts, and they all boil down to one sentence.

...then I stand alone.

Lacie is the manifestation of blind rage.