The hour was late as I wandered the stark halls of the clinic. My hooves clicked and clacked upon the tile, echoing around the featureless white walls as I slowly trod towards a door at the end of the dimmed hallway. Whispers and mutters and muted laughter came from behind every door I passed as I wiped my brow and adjusted my glasses.
I had been called to speak with one of my most frustrating patients. One whom I’d all but given up on, and who was now willing to undergo drastic measures... measures which I did not approve of... in an attempt to get her life back to a semblance of normalcy. Under far more extenuating circumstances, I might have approved of the procedure, but this mare never seemed anywhere near as sick as other patients I had treated. Indeed, she always seemed to teeter the line between sickness and health, and deep down I felt that were she just to exert a little willpower, she might find herself healthy once more. As it stood, though, she’d been in my care for two years and was in the same state that she’d been in when she was forcibly brought to me two years prior. At times, I had almost suspected that she didn’t want to get better, at least until she suggested the spell.
The clinic was, frankly, quite large, and it was an endeavor to get to her room. Given my fatigue at the hour and how generally out of shape I had let myself become, I was already sweating by the time I reached the ninth floor, and out of breath upon reaching the end of the hall where her room lay. I looked upon the door to room 939 gloomily. It was a real shame that such an intelligent mare with such a promising, prestigious future had taken such a turn for the worse. Still, a small light of hope began to well up within me. Perhaps she had called me to say she had reconsidered the treatment and was willing to continue with more conventional programs?
I steeled myself with a sigh and raised a hoof to knock upon her door. My response was a deceptively cheerful “Come in!”
Undoing the latches that kept her wrought iron door locked tight, I pulled the rusty door open, its hinges giving off a painful shriek of metal against metal as it was pulled from its resting place. Trotting inside, I secured my belongings and shut the door firmly behind me.
“Hey, Doc,” she chirped as I pulled a chair from the corner of the room and observed my surroundings. The cell was padded for her protection, the walls and floor, and even the ceiling all cushioned to make sure that she could not hurt herself in the moments she slipped into fits of panic. The room had been stark white and clean when she’d been admitted, but on only her second day here she had requested a black crayon. Now the walls and floor were covered in symbols. I could recognize, off the top of my head, the undying sun and the unyielding moon; the cutie marks of Princess Celestia and the mythical Princess Luna who was said to have been banished to the moon some thousand years ago. I recognized also the Heart of Unconditional Love; the cutie mark of Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, said to depict an ancient artifact of great power, and the Harmony Matrix, a six-pointed star with five smaller stars circling it. All these and many, many more symbols that I had never seen before were scribbled over and over again along the walls.
And there she sat upon her padded bed: Lyra Heartstrings. Ex-Professor of Archaeology at Hope University in Canterlot. My heart sank at the sight of her. I’d seen photos of her in her prime and she seemed to be an intelligent, exuberant young mare with the world in her hooves. And indeed, her profile suggested as much. She had earned her cutie mark at the mere age of five when, whilst on a camping trip on the edge of the Northern Wilds, she had been randomly digging in the dirt to amuse herself, only to find a massive artifact, perplexingly shaped like a Lyre; a Griffo-Minotaurian musical instrument. She went on to become a premiere student of Archaeology, and ended up becoming the youngest graduate of Hope University’s Archaeological program at the mere age of fifteen. Her abilities suggested a vast intellect indeed. And at the young age of twenty, she’d become the youngest Professor in the history of Hope University.
Looking at her now, one would never have guessed this was the same mare. She looked like an addict in withdrawal. Her coat was matted, sweaty, and appeared somehow grayer, though not much of it was visible beneath her off-white hospital gown. Her mane was much longer, having grown considerably in the time she’d been here, and was a limp mess of tangles and rats’ nests, and her face had seemed to gain ten years in the mere two years she’d been present. Particularly noticeable were the deep, dark bags beneath her sad yellow eyes. And yet, when she looked at me, she gave me that same, cheerful, cocky grin and intelligent stare she always did. I could see past it, though. Every time she made that grin, I could see the tears waiting to flow just behind her eyes.
“Heya, Doc.” She smiled ruefully. “How you doing?”
“Lyra,” I greeted with a nod. “A little winded, perhaps, but I don’t believe it’s my condition that’s of concern here.”
Lyra chuckled sadly. “Don’t worry, Doc,” she said with a small smile. “In 24 hours my condition won’t be of any concern either.”
“Indeed.” I said, my heart sinking. “I had hoped you called me here to tell me you’d reconsidered. After all, a reform spell seems unnecessarily extreme for your condition. We usually reserve those for ponies who are dangerously insane and pose a threat to both themselves and others. You, on the other hoof, merely suffer from the occasional panic attack, insomnia, night terrors, paranoia and depression. It’s rather like lobotomizing a pony simply for having a case of obsessive compulsive disorder if you ask me.”
“We’ve been over this, Doc,” Lyra said with a sigh. “I need it. It’s the only way I could ever live anything close to a normal life again.”
“But the Lyra you are now would be dead.” I desperately tried to explain, even though we’d been over this many times by now. “The Lyra that emerges after the spell could be a completely different pony. Mental Manipulation spells like the reform spell are highly unpredictable and still poorly understood. It’s always a roll of the dice as to what will happen. You could turn into some kind of aggressive thrill-seeker or an anxiety-ridden wallflower or a hyperactive, giggling madpony… anypony could emerge from that room once you’ve finished. If something goes wrong it could even leave you lobotomized or a vegetable.”
“I have to take the risk Doc,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Besides… it’s for the best. The Lyra that currently lives would be better off gone.”
“I don’t believe that,” I tried desperately to convince her. “You’re still an intelligent, clever, witty mare, Lyra,” I said, leaning over and placing my hoof upon hers. “You can still get better.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s too late for me…” she whispered. “Too late for all of us, but especially for me… after the things I’ve seen I can’t possibly live a normal life again unless I cast my old one away.”
My ears pricked up at her words. For the past two years, Miss Heartstrings had been incredibly conservative with the information involving how she came to be here. Not I, nor any of the other doctors, nor even her own fiancée, who had been to see her many times over the course of her stay, had any idea what, exactly, had driven her into her current state.
“Lyra…” I ventured cautiously, “are you saying you’re finally willing to speak of what happened before you came here?”
The mint-green unicorn took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Yes I am.”
I leaned back in my chair, looking at her intently. “You’ve been so secretive up to this point, though. What brought this on?”
Lyra shuddered and swallowed hard. I noticed that she’d started to break out in a sweat. Visibly steeling herself, she spoke. “I can’t help but let somepony know. I just can’t help it,” she mumbled, her voice no longer holding its facade of confidence and humor, instead trembling with fear.
“I know I should let it die. I should let it die with the old me. Nopony should have to carry the burden of what I’ve learned. It’s terrible and wrong and strange but…” She shook her head sharply. “I just can’t. It’s too big. It’s so much bigger than I am. It means the world for every pony, griffin, zebra, minotaur, donkey, buffalo, cow, and mule. It’s too big to just let die. I know I should but I just… I just can’t!” she shouted, tears starting to leak from her clenched eyes as she buried her face in her hooves.
“Lyra, Lyra…” I said soothingly, placing my hoof on her shoulder. She visibly calmed at my touch. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
Lyra sniffled and regained some measure of composure. “S-sorry…” she stammered. “I’ll be okay.”
I nodded, though I was not convinced. She certainly didn’t look okay. Still, I was more than intrigued. I couldn’t help but be interested in the events that drove this promising young mare to madness. Shushing her calmly, I placed a hoof under her chin and lifted it up so that her eyes met mine.
“Just start at the beginning,” I said softly.
Lyra nodded. “Alright,” she said. “It all started two and a half years ago…”