I Don't Want It

Monday April 18th

Why does anypony want a Cutie Mark?

Just... why? I don't get it.

The only thing it's ever given me is misery – it makes me feel like I'm incapable of doing anything, and that I can't achieve my goals without falling at the last hurdle. I'm always under pressure, just because of a stupid picture plastered to my flank. Is this really the good life for a pony? Because it sure doesn't feel like it to me.

“Black Sail, come down, please!”

“No!”

Flare paused in her movement around the kitchen, ears pricked up in worry. The tone in her son's voice sounded different; almost strangled. And it upset her.

“Are you okay, darling?” she called, trying to hide her anxiety.

No response, though she thought she could hear a sniffling coming from Black Sail's room.

Her mind began to conjure worrying thoughts, and before they became too much to bear, she quickly made her way upstairs. She always had an instinct that something wasn't right, and it seemed to be one of those moments.

When she reached Black's room, the door was closed, and also, she discovered, locked as she tried to turn the handle with her magic. “Black, are you there?”

“Go away!” the teenage foal screamed, sending a dreadful quake of terror across Flare's body. This was worse than she thought: he had never shouted like that before.

“Black, open the door, please,” she demanded firmly, trying to keep calm. When the sound of him crying reached her ears, Flare desperately tried the door again, but to no avail.

For a while, she kept trying to ram her way in, throwing her entire weight at the door again, all while her son's sobbing continued. Soon enough, she felt tears coming out of her own eyes, sliding down her face as her shoulder started to ache from the impact of the door.

Then, after seemingly hours of using herself as a battering ram, Flare finally managed to shove it open.

Then she found herself screaming.

A patch of blood was clearly visible on the duvet of the nearby bed. And the crying foal, Black Sail, lay trembling on his side, a soaked knife by his head, and an unbelievably deep gash decorating the area where his Cutie Mark should have been.

Flare anxiously paced around the waiting room. No fear had ever taken hold of her in this way before; it was like her heart and soul had been ripped out of her body, leaving her with only confused fear and utter devastation.

Her son could have died.

She couldn't push away the image of him in the bedroom, bleeding, almost unconscious, his body partly mutilated. He was now placed in intensive care, and all Flare could do was wait. Thankfully, at least, she wasn't alone in her waiting.

“Try and keep calm, honey,” her husband murmured, from his place on one of the chairs nearby.

“How can I keep calm?!” She whirled around furiously, tears creeping into her eyes instantly. “Your son almost butchered himself to death! And for what? Because of his Cutie Mark? Who feels like that, Soulburn? Nopony feels like that! So why does he?!”

Flare let out her tears in a pained sob, her head in her hooves, while Soulburn immediately came up to comfort her in a tight embrace. As if on cue, a door clicked open, revealing a serious brown stallion with glasses on the tip of his snout. The couple looked up with worried gazes, searching the doctor's face for any sign of news.

“Soulburn and Flare?”

They nodded solemnly. The doctor adjusted his glasses rather anxiously. “If you'd like to come inside, please. I must talk with you urgently.”

“I've never seen anything like this in my career before,” the doctor said gravely, with a hint of disbelief, looking over his notes carefully.

Soulburn and Flare sat in front of his desk, hooves occasionally fidgeting with impatience.

“Your son is in a state of severe emotional trauma,” he began to explain, leaning forward slightly in his chair, “but I've never known it to happen for a reason like this. He appears to have a certain … hatred towards his Cutie Mark.”

“But why?” Flare cried, her voice trembling again. “Cutie Marks are what make ponies who they are! Everypony loves their Cutie Mark! Black Sail has no reason to want to hurt himself for that!”

“I'm afraid I beg to differ,” the doctor admitted. He dragged a crumpled pile of papers across the desk, staring at the large paragraphs of writing scribbled on them. “According to his diary entries, he appears to see his Cutie Mark as a barrier – something that keeps him from doing whatever he wants to do for fear of letting himself down. His talent is something he believes he must live up to, otherwise he is worthless. He hates that expectation – that is why he tried so hard to... to get rid of it.”

Flare stared, her mouth open. Soulburn placed his hoof comfortingly on hers, before addressing the doctor. “But it doesn't make any sense, doctor,” he said curiously. “Black Sail has never been this unhappy before, and he has a wonderful talent. I don't see how a hobby of crafting and artwork can cause him so much pain.”

“I'm sure it's hard for you to understand,” the doctor said with a sigh, casting a sympathetic look at Soulburn's sobbing wife. “But the fact is that Black Sail is incredibly unhappy with having a Cutie Mark. We've treated him and talked to him the best we can, however... I...”

He bit down his lip, struggling to get the next sentence out. “I can't promise this kind of thing won't happen again.”

At those words, Flare began to wail even more loudly, burying her face in Soulburn's shoulder. The doctor stared at the couple in silence; he found it almost unbearable to see how awful this news was for such innocent parents, but he simply had to tell them.

If only he could think of something to make it all better, to make the young foal happy. But after everything that had happened, somehow he just knew, in this case, that he couldn't.

Thursday, April 21st

I almost did it. I can't believe I almost did it. I could have actually killed myself if I'd tried, but I don't think I had it in me to go that far.

But now, instead of my stupid Cutie Mark, a bruise is on my flank, standing out clearly against the black fur. I can still see remnants of my mark emerging from underneath the injury, but for the most part, it's completely covered up by my wounds. The wounds I've inflicted.

They still sting occasionally from where the knife was, reminding me of how absolutely crazy I'd been. I thought I was going to get happiness out of it, but it feels like the opposite has happened. I feel empty, hollow, like all my anger and misery has exploded out of my body, leaving me as an emotionless shell with nothing to show for it. My Cutie Mark's hardly visible, which makes me feel a sense of accomplishment at least – but something's still missing. I'm not sure what, but it is.

Mum's still upset with me, though she's calmed down slightly after my visit to the hospital. I don't know if she or Dad will ever look at me in the same way again.

Something else has happened though; something odd. My parents have been talking to each other a lot more lately, but in whispers, like they don't want me to hear it. I think they're planning something for me, and I'm sure I'll hate it. I'm just anxiously waiting to find out is.