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The Longest Sentence

The Longest Sentence
Admiral Biscuit
For Present Perfect

Outside was freedom.

It was not far away, as those things went. A few paces to the cold block wall would put her not more than two hoof-spans from the freedom. More—if she pressed the side of her face against the cold bars of the window, she was even closer to that freedom. She did not know how thick the barrier was, but it could not have been more than inches . . . and yet, it was too far.

Had she foolishly turned her attention from the stern face of her warden, or even been bold enough to giddily trot over to the window, she could have measured the distance, could have taken in a breath of the outside, rather than the stinking institutional malodor which pervaded her prison, but she dared not. Dared not move a hoof in defiance; she would not be the squeaky nail or whatever the metaphor was that stuck up only to be pounded back down.

She kept her eyes downcast, looking at her warden's hooves and the chipped tiles which spread below, worn down by generation after generation of prisoner. They, too, had taken on the air of depression which pervaded the institution.

They were bland tiles.

They were not the tiles which any respectable pony would have in her home, that was certain. Perhaps they had been fashionable once—but she doubted it. No government building was ever fashionable, save the palace. And this was a far cry from the palace. Why, it was rumored among the inmates that even the Princess wouldn't dare set hoof in here, and while that might not have been so, standing here, now, she half-believed it.

She didn't deserve to be here. She was sure of that. It didn't strike her that nopony felt they deserved to be here, rather they all griped bitterly about being caught. Their crimes were naught but foalish pranks, deserving of no more than a few harsh words.

Outside was freedom. Inside, she could almost feel cold iron shackles around her fetlocks. That there were not was perhaps even more cruel, for she could gallop to freedom . . . or attempt to. She would not make it; her warden would make sure of that. So they were not shackles of the flesh, but shackles of the mind, and that was infinitely worse. Flesh healed faster than spirit, she knew that.

Around her, had she dared to look, were other downcast faces. Her fellow prisoners, none of them bold enough to speak out, they just stood there, occasionally shifting on their hooves, each scrape of shoe against tile ringing out like a confession, all of it witnessed in silence by their warden.

The warden cleared her throat.

A simple thing. Outside, it would have passed without significance, for there was no deep meaning to it. A scratchy throat, a little bit of phlegm, perhaps somepony was thirsty or recovering from a cold. In here, it might as well have been the shrill shriek of a whistle.

She rolled her eyes up, ever so slightly.

"Yes, you, Cayenne. Come here."

Reluctantly, she took a step forward. There was no line in the tiles which clearly demarked the division between Us and Them, yet every inmate knew it. Behind the line was some modicum of safety, a unified herd—however temporary and ragged, for one day's alliances were gone in the blink of an eye. Beyond, it was but one pony caught up in the maw of a merciless machine.

She didn't deserve this. Nopony did. Her friends had done worse . . . but they hadn't been caught. They hadn't been seen. They were outside, unpunished.

The indignity gnawed at her, but she could not rat them out. Being a snitch was the worst possible thing; it was better to endure her punishment in stoic silence. That way, she could serve her time and still be respected when she got out. She knew this—they all knew this.

"Ma'am." It was quiet and respectful. You didn't want to be the squeaky nail.

There was no reply, other than a hoof pointing towards an expanse of slate. Her ears drooped—this would be her punishment, then.

She squared her shoulders and made her way to the front of the room. In a way, it was a relief. The uncertainty before the sentence, that was the worst. There was no way of guessing how long she would be imprisoned. Now she knew—now she had a task which she could set herself to, and when it was done . . . it was done.

Cayenne brushed a lock of mane out of her face and picked up the chalk with her brick-red aura. She stood on her hind hooves to reach the ledge of the chalkboard and rolled her eyes up; there, with the shaky uncertain aura of a filly, she began writing:

I will not tell my classmates jalapeño peppers are mini cucumbers.

Author's Note:

Visit the thankfully-brief blog post!

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