Tuesday.
Dear Celestia, I have so much to get done, the work is coming out my ears. Early as always, I was up, looking foreward to a nice breakfast from Spike as usual, but there was nothing today.
I went upstairs and Spike was still asleep, just imagine my surprise. He said something or other about not feeling well, but he should know me better by now. I'm not buying it, he's just trying to worm his way out of his chores.
He's probably just tired, but I DID tell him not to eat so many of Pinkie's sugar cookies right before bed.
Wednesday.
Without Spike's help, things have been running very slow. He hasn't been doing any of his chores, and I could barely get him out of bed this morning. I've heard a few complaints about a stomache ache, but it's nothing a little herbal brew that Zecora can stir up can't fix. I'm sure he'll be up and going in no time.
Thursday.
He's hardly sleeping anymore, turning and twisting all night, groaning in his sleep. Sometimes he jolts out of bed in a cold sweat, trembling and pale as a sheet. I've tried to comfort him, Luna can count how many times I've tucked the poor little guy back in his bed, but he won't catch any more than a couple hours a night.
To be honest, I'm getting a little worried. Spike's had colds before, everyone gets sick growing up, but not like this. I haven't told any of the others, I don't want them to worry too, and besides, I'm sure he'll get better soon.
I hope.
Saturday.
I'm contemplating writing a letter to Princess Celestia. Spike's condition seems like more than just a cold, and I've not read of anything like it. With each day that passes, I get more and more worried about him. The fact that he's progressing from bad to worse with every hour is eating away at me.
Sunday.
Spike didn't come down at all today. Fluttershy has been here for a little while, helping me take care of Spike. She's always connected with him in a different way than I did, and I can see in her face that she's just as worried as I am.
She's calling me right now; I guess it's time to bring up Spike's dinner. I want to help as much as I can, I want to be there for Spike all the time, but everytime I enter the room now it feels like the plague. He's shivering and cold, and I don't think there's a blanket thick enough to wrap him in.
I'm sending a letter to Princess Celestia in the morning, and I hope she has a way to take Spike away from all this; he doesn't deserve it.
Tuesday.
The mail came in today. It would have been much faster if Spike was able to receive it, but in his state being able to receive any letters is out of the question. Princess Celestia explained everything.
They call it the Equine Influenza, and although I could hardly see the letter through thick beads of sorrow welling up in my eyes, I read on.
Ponies could be cured, but no one had ever even heard of the case in a dragon. I cringed at the thought. I needed a moment to process that Spike had caught something that could not be fixed.
As I read on, I realized it was my fault. I shouldn't have taken him in to live with me. His dragon immune system couldn't handle it; I should have known.
I'd like to believe that I can cure him. I'd like to believe it. But the more I read on, the more my illusion fades.
It was me, I know it was me. I kept him here, selfishly, heartlessly, and now he lies on the deathbed I built for him.
Thursday.
I can still see their faces, the horror, the grief, the blame that I know is there. I saw them, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Pie, all the others, but I couldn't feel them, any of them; they can't possibly know what its like.
I can't enter his room any more. I can't bear to see him without wanting to break into tears. I want to be with him all the time, listen to every one of his heartbeats, and I wish, I so wish that I could.
At least I know that part of me is with him, always.
All my organization, everything is in there, the dreaded, plagued room, with Spike.
I don't know what day it is anymore. The sun and the moon have started to blur, and I can't tell one minute from the last.
I've become numb, hard, cold. I no longer feel the ache as my heart breaks, over and over. I want to take him away from here.
I don't want to ever come back.
They come over every day now, and I wish they wouldn't I don't need anyone here, I don't need one single other pony to tell me it wasn't my fault, that I can't bring him back to me.
I don't sleep any more. I can't give another minute to anything else. I spend hours next to him, just watching his chest rise and fall, every breath a gift he gives to me, reminding me that soon, I'll never see another.
He spoke today, for the first time in days. He can hardly get out a single wheeze, that laughing baby dragon I once knew, and he wasted one of his last breaths on telling me that he loves me. If only he knew.
I am so tired. So tired of tears. So tired of blinking blurry and struggling to read what's on these smeared pages.
I owe them to him. I owe every tear to Spike.
I remember holding him as a hatchling, a memory I wish I could forget. I remember carrying him, I remember his height, his weight, how he looked at me like I was his mother with giant, wide eyes.
I remember the decision to keep him. I remember the choices I had, to let him go to the dragons, where I know now he belonged. I think I've always known. I was selfish, so selfish, and now he pays for my crimes against him with every labored, numbered breath.
I want to take him, wrap him up like the tiny thing he once was, and promise him that everything was going to be alright.
Even if it won't.
He isn't the same, I can see it in his eyes. They're dark, lifeless; he's been through more than anyone ever should.
He's given up.
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Tonight, he closed his eyes for the final time.
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...
...
It's been three weeks. Three weeks that may as well have been three years, a lifetime, an eternity.
Sometimes I call for him, I expect him to come, face bright, as excited as he always was, before I remember. It hurts so much, I have no more tears to give him.
I should have given him everything.
I miss him. I miss him so much. I love him with all I have, every breath, every heartbeat, every tear.
Goodnight, Spike.
