Author's Note

TW depression.
TW suicidal thoughts.

Marjoram doesn't have the best mental health, okay?

Marjoram Has Mental Health Issues

Marjoram stared at the wall opposite to his bed, physically seeing the naturally shaped wood of the tree, but finding it hard to mentally get past the fog that slowed him down.

“Breakfast is ready!” Spike’s voice echoed down the stairs.

Marjoram wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t ever hungry nowadays. Twilight got him to eat once a day, most of the time. It showed, and even though Marjoram knew he should care, he couldn’t bring himself to waste the time or energy to do so.

Curling into himself more, Marjoram shut his eyes. Once again, he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two. Burning eyes unwillingly filled with frustrated tears. Marjoram forced them away, trying to steady his breathing.

“Marjoram!?” Spike was at the top of the stairs, judging from how close he sounded.

Marjoram sighed, listlessly lifting his head off the pillows, “Coming.” He didn’t really care if he was heard.

Roll over. Breathe. Sit up. Let the dizzy spell pass and try not to cough so hard you puke as your lungs settle. Plant hooves on ground, and push.

Marjoram wanted to collapse on a heap in bed and he’d barely gotten out of it.

The stairs were another challenge that left him feeling breathless and dizzy. Licking dry lips, he turned towards the kitchen. Twilight and Spike were at the island, already eating.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Marjoram stared down at the lovingly prepared eggs, and knew he wasn’t hungry. Somehow, he choked down a few mouthfuls with his three cups of coffee.

Muttering a thank you, and putting his plate in the sink after scraping the eggs into the compost bin, Marjoram fetched his cloak and stepped out of the library. The cool, early morning breeze made him shiver, despite the warmth of his cloak.

Ducking his head, Marjoram shuffled to his mortuary. There was an autopsy he had to finish, for another town far away from Ponyville. For family members who didn’t care what he did so long as the deceased’s past digressions stay hidden. Marjoram stopped caring about the ‘who’ a long time ago. He just needed to know the why and how.

Hanging his cloak up, he changed into his scrubs and lab coat. Tying his mane back while he levitated the corpse onto the table, Marjoram set to work. Another corpse, another accidental death. More paperwork. Nothing new, nothing gained. What was the point.

Marjoram sat in his too quiet office, staring at the completed paperwork with unfocused, burning eyes. He hesitantly reached out a hoof, and pushed his inkpot onto the completed paperwork. Black ink spread over the papers like a plague spreads through a populace. He righted the inkpot, still staring at the disaster in front of his very eyes.

Another sigh. He threw the papers out, and started again. Another hour wasted. These pages were more ink-splattered than usual, since he hadn’t bothered to clean the little bit that had gotten onto his desk proper. No one would notice, so it was fine.

Marjoram sealed them, staring at the almost empty inkpot. He’d need to order more. He wrote himself a note, and hopefully he’d remember again before he ran out completely.

Marjoram locked the door, and was surprised to see the sun was setting. It hadn’t seemed like that long of a day, only eternity.

Yet another sigh. Marjoram made his way to the library. He shut the door, but didn’t block the cold from following him inside.

“How was your day!?” Spike asked from the kitchen, where he poured over a recipe book of some kind, the oven preheating.

“Fine.”

“Twilight and I reshelved!” Was Spike trying to be...too cheerful? Marjoram blinked, did it matter if Spike was trying to be too cheerful? Probably not.

“That’s...good.”

“I thought so.”

Marjoram nodded, hanging the cloak up, “I’m...gonna go lie down. I’m not hungry.”

“But-”

“No thank you, Spike. If I want anything, you’ll be the first dragon I tell,” Marjoram tried to smile, but he knew it was likely just a poor grimace.

Spike looked upset, and seemed helpless, “I..but…”

“No. Thank. You,” That was harsher than Marjoram intended. Another grimace.

“Okay.”

Marjoram heads downstairs, and with practiced ease, collapses onto the bed. For a second, unbidden tears rise again. Marjoram swallows them before drowning them out with a cough.

Marjoram squeezes his eyes shut, and holds his breath when he hears the front door open, and hears Twilight’s careful hoofsteps. A muffled conversation, Twilight sounding disappointed, and Spike sounding near tears.

The fog deepens, and Marjoram only wishes a shadow would reach up and swallow him whole. He doesn’t wish for death, just not-existence. He’s hurting them, he thinks. And despite the ache in his chest, he still finds himself not caring.

Not about himself, his work, his wellbeing, and not even Twilight or Spike. When was the last time he’d written Shores, or Celestia? Or even Luna? Marjoram squeezed his eyes shut tighter, sobs tearing at his body for several seconds before the sea of anguish diminishes as quickly as it came.

The entire time, not a sound escaped him. He was as quiet as death, and he couldn’t help but catch a whiff of formaldehyde from his mane. Leveraging himself out of bed, trying not to stumble when the inevitable dizzy spell besets him, he gathers a towel, and makes his way back upstairs again.

A conversation in the kitchen stops as soon as his hooves hit the main floor. He doesn’t even look at them. Moving into the main living quarters, where the private bathroom is tucked away, he can shower in relative peace.

He starts the water as he hangs his towel up. It doesn’t take long for the water to warm. It seems Spike hasn’t taken one of his famously long baths recently.

Marjoram climbs into the shower first, washing his mane and tail, and getting the worst of the who-knows-how-long-it’s-been grime off his coat. He turns the shower part off, plugging the drain, and fills himself a warm bath.

Just because he can, he puts in a capful of Twilight’s bubble bath in the hot water as well. Some distant part of him hoped it would lighten his mood, maybe thin the fog. It doesn’t. That part of him, the part of him that seems to always be on the edge of weeping, cries.

Marjoram can’t care. He rests in hot, clean water, trying to ease his sore muscles and joints. There’s limited success. When his muzzle touches the water without him realizing it, Marjoram reluctantly climbs to his hooves. He dries himself off as quickly as he can, unplugs the tub, and throws the towel in the hamper.

When he makes his way back downstairs, his eyes can’t help but pass over the kitchen as they focus in on his destination. Spike seems near tears, furiously mixing something in a bowl. Twilight seems focused on her current book of choice, though she looks up at him.

For just a fraction of a millisecond, their eyes meet. Then, he continues to the basement. Out of his peripheral vision, he sees Twilight staring after him like a frightened filly.

Marjoram makes himself comfortable on the bed again, and sighs. Staring at the wall his bed lays flush against, he can only hope he’ll sleep.