Searching.

Once upon a time there was a filly born in Canterlot.
Her parents weren’t the richest ponies the city, but they were well off enough to have a comfortable life.
Like most young ponies, one of her biggest concerns growing up was her lack of cutie mark. During her first few years, it wasn’t too much of a bother, but when her friends were one by one discovering their talents the term blank-flank came up several times.
That’s not to say the other ponies were cruel, rather, they never even mentioned the blankness out loud. But in the pony’s own mind, she heard voices constantly echoing “Blank-flank...useless.....blank-flank...”
She pushed on with forced optimism and support from family and friends. After quite a few more years, all of her friends had discovered their talent in life, and settled in their own special niche. Still, no cutie mark.
One day, a pony mentioned three other ponies her age, all three had no cutie marks. They called themselves the cutie mark crusaders, and what had started out as three friends hanging together had turned into a much wider group. The three ponies offered help, support, and advice for young ponies who were searching for meaning.
The pony considered traveling to ponyville where the cutiemark crusaders were located, but opted out, making excuse after excuse. She was too old.
More years passed. Even though the cutie mark crusader original leaders had discovered their own true talents, they still helped out the younger crowd. A trip to consult with them gave momentary hope, but not an actual mark.
The pony’s life passed. There seemed to be no disease, rhyme, or reason for the lack of cutie mark. She tried many activities, arts, hobbies, crafts, sports, anything she could lay her hooves on. Even though she was passable at most of the things she tried, she excelled in none.
Middle age began to near. She fell in love, a stallion who loved her for who she was married her.
They had a young filly, a joy.
Always, the voices saying “Useless...blank-flank....”
Finally, one day the voices were too loud.
The mailpony came that day with a package, and knocked on the side of the open door for a signature.
After no response, he peeked his head into the entrance and saw the pony in the room, about two feet off the floor. Her hooves dangled limply, as did her head, mane, tail, entire body. The mailpony’s shocked eyes traveled upwards, along her body to the rope tight around her bruised neck on one end and firmly tied to a ceiling beam on the other.
News got around quickly, and when her distraught husband rushed home he discovered that she had finally got her cutie mark: on her cold flank a dark gray skull and crossbones were glazed, symbolizing that after all the only thing she was good for was death.
The end.