Bricks in the Wall

by _NAME_


Chapter Three: Within Inches of Their Lives

Chapter Three

Within Inches of Their Lives

“Mistah Pinkerton! Doodlin’ in class, are we…?” A ruler smacked down hard on my desk. Several of the ponies around me jolted awake at the noise. Quickly, I shuffled my book under some papers, hoping to avoid embarrassment. I looked up at our teacher, a griffon, and grinned sheepishly.

“Sir…?” I put on my most innocent looking expression.

He held his hand out, clearly not fooled and gestured towards the book I’d hidden. “Let’s ‘ave it, laddie.”

I sighed shifted the papers off of my book. It was a small book, a journal really. Bound in black leather and dog-eared with use. Nothing special on its own. But it was its contents I treasured. With a heavy heart I placed my book in his outstretched claw.

Sir’s beak widened in amusement. “Excellent choice, laddie. Now let’s see what we ‘ave ‘ere.”

Sir had been our teacher for the past four years. He was a thinly built, middle-aged griffon. His sparse black and brown feathers had lost much of their sheen they had in younger years. Small, beady eyes stared out from behind the small reading glasses sitting precariously on his beak.

In contrast to the years we knew him, we knew next to nothing about Sir. He hailed from a small, northern territory of Equestria where he grew up in a small village. Many years later, he still spoke in a lilting accent common to the area.

Sir wasn’t even his real name. The day he came in, four years ago, he told us to refer to him as Sir. That was the end of the discussion. That was the end of a lot of things for us. Our individuality. Our freedom. But it was also the start of something for us. That day was the start of our own personal hell, commandeered by Sir.

He demanded perfection from day one. Any deviation from his plans ended in immediate and painful retribution. Many of the students believed he had been in the army before teaching. No one knew for sure, and we never asked, but one thing for certain was that he did not care for us. Over the years he owned many rulers, all of which had forcibly connected with his students. Very rarely did a week pass by when a student wouldn’t come home with bruised wrists or withers.

But over time he became worse, if that was even possible. At first he was just strict, commanding a military-like conduct from us. But then he seemed to grow angrier and more dissatisfied each day. Soon, he began to revel in causing our misfortune. He would go out of his way to hurt us, to crush our hopes. To hurt us anyway he could.

He would pick on each one of us individually, taking our ambitions and crushing them underfoot. Many days he would send most of the fillies into hysterics, as wells as a few of the colts. Our free will was slowly withering away. And the worst part of it was there was nothing we could do about it.

However, his worst came out when the war started. After Equestria found every usable stallion, they turned to the foals. There was a mad rush to produce hard working citizens for the war effort, and of course, we became the unlucky targets. As tension within the nation grew, Sir grew more and more strict. Any sort of artistic or creative thinking was quickly quelled. Talking and laughing were frowned upon. We soon learned to appear to conform to this. We didn't sing. We didn’t draw. We rarely talked. Our school became even more a prison. Its walls barred us inside for ten hours. Our teacher, the solitary guard.

We quickly took any satisfaction we could out of anything we could do to defy Sir. Small acts of rebellion. It was the one thing we could do to alleviate the pain. We drew and wrote vulgar things on our desks and the blackboard. We hid his rulers and anything else he could hit us with. We talked just a bit too loud. And, in my case, I wrote poetry in the middle of class.

Sir skimmed through my little black book, perusing its contents. After the first few pages, his eyes widened. “Poems! Little Pink was writin’ poems everypony!” He held my book high, showing it to the class. Stifled, forced laughter broke out all over the classroom. They knew to laugh, lest he grow even angrier. A few shot me worried glances out of the corners of their eyes. “Mistah Pinkerton fancies ‘imself a poet!” His beak clacked together in a cruel sort of laugh.

“Now, let’s see ‘ere…” He flipped through the book, pages rustling, looking to humiliate me further. He stopped on a page near the end, his eyes lighting up in satisfaction. “Oh ho! Now this ‘ere page looks right nice.” I slunk further in my seat as he continued degrading me. He had no reason to be doing this. He enjoyed this. He enjoyed hurting his students. Physically and mentally.

“Now, this bit’s crossed out, but I think that it serves a good example. So…” His brow knitted in confusion as he attempted to read my chicken scratch writing. Despite myself, I felt just a bit happier knowing he was struggling with my letters. It was a small satisfaction, though.

He continued in his lilting accent. “’So, you think you can tell heaven from hell?’” He peered down at me over his glasses, his beak twisting into a wry smirk. “’Tell’ and hell,’ laddie? Truly, you are ingenious.” Once again, the class broke into another round of laughter. He waited for them to quiet down before continuing. “Now this part looks fresh…” He cleared his throat again, his beak snapping together. “’How I wish, how I wish you were ‘ere. We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year, running over the same old ground. What ‘ave we found? The same old fears. Wish you were ‘ere.

He snapped my book shut with an almost feral look in his eyes. “Well, Mistah Pinkerton.” He leaned in close to me, plumage tickling my snout. “Missing somepony are we? Hmm?”

He poked my forehead with a talon, trying to incite a remark. Ignoring him, I stared a hole through my desk. I knew if I responded it would only give him more to go off on. I didn't want to give him the pleasure.

But it was true. I longed for my father, the stallion who’ll never be in my life. The emotions were still raw in my mind. Writing about him helped alleviate the pain my heart felt. That poem in particular was the culmination of the past few weeks of work. Sir’s voiced butchered it, stressing the wrong syllables, not to mention his horrid accent. I hated him.

But I still didn’t react to his prompts. We learned to not respond to his goads. Under his scrutiny, we sat obedient and straight-faced. We developed the finest poker faces. Created walls to conceal our true emotions. Any bit of response from us Sir would leap at. He would jab at us, scrabbling for a handhold to latch onto. His abuses were a daily occurrence we all learned to deal with. It took all of our willpower to not crack in front of him.

Outside of school, though, was a different story. That was when the tears began to flow. The younger fillies and colts would sob into the older one’s shoulders looking for comfort they could only find from us. We knew their families couldn’t provide the consolation these foals needed. They didn't have the time, energy or understanding needed. They were caught up in the war. Just as the war changed our schools, it changed the rest of Equestria as well. No longer could you find smiles and laughter on every corner. It sucked the life from this country. The war tore so much of our lives away.

My interest in poetry had started just a few months ago to express my feelings. Feelings over father. Feelings about my school turned prison. I poured my thoughts into my black book during class, silently defying our tormenter. Later in the day, during lunch, I’d stand and read before small groups of my friends. They adored it. They were convinced writing poetry would be my special talent. I wasn’t so sure. I loved it, and the thrill of disobeying Sir, but just poetry never seemed right. Like a certain aspect was missing. It seemed too low-key for my tastes.

But now, today, after months of secretly flouting my disregard for rules, Sir finally caught me. It was to happen eventually, I knew, but that didn't let what was to come fall any easier. Many nights after waking up from my nightmares, I’d lie awake, wondering what would happen when Sir discovered the art I loved so.

Abruptly, the griffon gripped my snout, yanking my face up to look at his. He leaned in closer, his clammy beak brushing against my snout. This was much too close for comfort. Panicking, I tried to break out of his grasp. His grip only tightened, keeping me under his power. I couldn’t see my classmates, so I could only wonder what their reactions were. His sky blue eyes squinted as he spoke. “Now listen ‘ere, laddie. Equestria is at war right now. She doesn’t need any bleedin’ ‘earts and artists. She doesn’t need any free-thinkers and lovers. And she certainly doesn’t need any poets.” He hissed the last words at me. With a grunt, he shoved me away from him.

He twisted around, and began to gear up for a tirade. With a flourish, he turned and began to address the whole class. I glanced around me. My peers were stock still in fright, unwilling to be on the receiving end of Sir’s anger as I was. I couldn’t blame them. Sorely, I rubbed my snout. It felt raw. I winced. I could only visualize what scars Sir’s talons would leave on my face.

But Sir remained oblivious to his student’s fear. He began ranting, growing steadily louder and louder as he vented. The skin beneath his feathers grew livid. “What Equestria needs is doers! We need workers and soldiers! And what we don’t need is you foals.” He paused and gestured at wildly at us. “You foals to grow up thinkin’ you’re special! BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT!”

He stopped and looked at us, and we in turn, continued to watch him. His feathers were ruffled and disheveled more than usual. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. He continued in a much calmer, quieter voice. “This war isn’t gonna be won with lily-livered scholars. We’re gonna win with fighters and ponies to make provisions for said fighters! I can tell you all our enemy is NOT sittin’ back, painting landscapes! They’re-they’re..!” His voice sputtered into silence. When he began again, his voice had dropped to a whisper. “There are rumors they’re forcing young’uns to fight. Younger than you all.”

He paused and turned back towards the board, his voice regaining its usual authority. “We need troops, and you sad bunch o’ miscreants are our future…And it’s my job to teach you all the basics to live.” He hesitated again and cast us all a forlorn glance. A glimpse of sadness crossed his face. “And maybe, just maybe, when we win, you all can live your lives how you want.” He shook his head, and a hint of anger returned to his voice. He turned back towards the board. “But that is not today! And, at present I need-”

His outburst was cut off by a small, dainty giggle.

In a flash, he was facing us again. His brows knitted in annoyance. He dryly chuckled. “Now, who thinks I’m funny?”
The silence in the classroom was overwhelming. Nopony moved a muscle.

“None of you, eh? Not you, lassie?” He pointed a clawed talon at a small, mousy mare who squeaked in fright and shook her head. “No?” A twisted grin grew on his face. “No. Of course not. Well…I guess we’ll just have to find out who then…”

With that, his wings flared out, increasing his already imposing visage. Shadows played across his face. He grinned a smile of someone dangerously close to snapping. Like a predator, he began to stalk up and down the rows eyeing each student looking for the source of the disruption. He tapped his ruler on each desk, watching for a reaction. Each foal sat at attention, unwilling to be mistaken for the troublemaker.

All but me. I was slumped in my chair, watching my desk with such scrutiny, you’d think it was trying to run away. I knew it wasn’t me. I knew he knew it wasn’t me, though I’m sure he’d like it if it was. His walk slowed as he passed me. The clacking of his claws on the wood floor was the only sound in the classroom. I didn't meet his gaze, but I could feel his eyes on me. Watching for any sign of rebellion.

The moment seemed to stretch into several. Neither of us moved. I held my breath, not daring Seemingly satisfied, he continued walking, lightly tapping me on the snout with his ruler. At that instant another snicker came from the far side of the room. From a small unicorn filly with a luscious green colored coat and a glorious flame colored mane.

The filly’s name was Rêves. The object of every young colt’s dreams. At the beginning of the year, she and her family had moved from the distant country of Fançie. Almost immediately, she turned heads as she walked down the hallway. Hearts melted when she smiled. The room always seemed a little brighter with her presence. Many a time, already taken colts were slapped across their faces by their marefriends when their eyes wandered over her figure. Her exotic form was welcome change from the monotony of Equestria’s girls. Not that any of the colts said that out loud, of course.

I can only say I felt the same as well. I, along with every colt in school pined for her like a dog longs for a bone. But I was set apart from the rest because I knew she was far out of my league. I watched as time and time again, she shot down every colt’s attempt for her hoof. Every single one, but me. Because I had never asked.

I knew that she wasn’t fastidious. She didn't see herself as anything special. As anything unique. She simply had no interest in love. And I seemed to be the only one able to see through the haze of lust to see that.

And now she was laughing at my pain. I certainly had no chance with her. My heart sank.

Sir spun around with surprising agility, smirking in triumph. “Oi you!” Rêves’ royal blue eyes widened in realization of her mistake. Her hooves flew to her mouth in attempt to stifle her laugh. That or maybe she intended to choke herself before our professor could punish her. You could almost feel the waves of fear rolling off of her. But Sir interpreted her emotions as an escape attempt. “Yes, you! Sit still, lassie!” With a quiet satisfaction, our teacher rushed over to her, and leaned in close. His grin widened. “Now, missie, what seems to be so funny?” The filly shrunk away, trembling. A small squeak was the only response he got.

“I’m sorry. What was that, lassie?” His voice dropped to one of pure unbridled anger, all pretentions of kindness gone. Fire to match the colors of the Rêves’ hair shone in his eyes. His hand darted out and grasped her hoof before she could flinch away. Another whimper from the unicorn.

Whomp! His other hand came down, wielding the ruler. Whomp!

I snorted in disgust. Who was he to maim such beauty?! I could see the colt’s faces around distort with the same anger.

The aging griffon threw her hoof back at her with a sneer of repulsion. Gingerly, she clutched at the bruised joint, which already seemed to be turning a nasty color. Sir stalked back to the front before turning to us, half screeching. “Now. There. Won’t. Be. Anymore. Interruptions. Will. There?” He punctuated each word with a whack of the ruler.

His voice fell away as I concentrated on Rêves. Right now, I only had eyes for her. I was the reason she was injured. How could I be so stupid as to let Sir smack me like that! If only I had moved, maybe she wouldn’t have laughed at my misfortune. I felt guilty, despite knowing that it truly wasn’t my fault.

I stared at her, my eyes wide. She was still inspecting her injury. Suddenly she glanced up, as if feeling my gaze. My eyes met hers for a split second. Blue and gray watched each other for a moment. Slowly, I mouthed an apology. ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled back at me, her dainty mouth forming a response. ‘It’s alright, Pink.’ A blush reddened her face. Flustered, we broke eye contact at the same time, both glancing down at our desks. She knew my name! She smiled at me! Maybe I wasn’t so hapless after all!

These feelings and opportunities were the things schools were meant for. The way they oppressed us, belittled us, wasn’t natural. School was supposed to be a place of chance and learning. A place to find your way in life. Students were meant to be encouraged and helped. Hell, half of my classmates, myself included, still have no cutie marks. No place in society. No place in life. Blank-flanks.

But instead, the school system hurt and suppressed us. All we were to them was the next line of faceless drones. They just wanted to create the next productive citizens. They could care less about our needs or hopes. Our wants and dreams. Our teachers were generals, commanding their troops with an iron will. And unfortunately for us, we were their troops, who could only cower as we were ordered about.

It was only inevitable that things would soon come to a boil.

“Mistah Pinkerton! Pay attention, laddie!”

I sat up straighter and tried to look alert. This was going to be a very long day.

But, my eyes just felt so heavy...

~-~-~-~-~-~

The gray, featureless walls of Sir’s home loomed over him as he stood at his front door, fumbling for his keys. Eventually he found them and made to put them in the lock. Keys in the bolt, he froze, wondering what he would find inside. He feared going inside his house nowadays. He shivered and pulled his scarf tighter, shielding himself from the harsh winter chill.

Once upon a time, these walls had been vibrant and full of life. Despite their color, they invited rather than rejected visitors. A light brown cobblestone pathway led up to the brightly painted front door. Windows were once flung wide open, allowing warm summer air to blow through the home. Bright red flowers adorned the sills, contrasting the drab gray of the house itself. On occasion, one could hear the cheerful humming of a female griffon from inside as she went about her daily tasks. During the evenings, the couple that lived in the house could be seen sitting in the front of their yard, watching the world flow by and greeting strangers as they walked by.

The house seemed to emanate a sense of joy that went unmatched in the area. Ponies would often trot by and immediately feel warmer and more contented then moments before. If houses had feelings, this one would undoubtedly be satisfied with its life. As such, the house’s two residents lived just as pleased. Things were at their best for the young twosome.

But time went on, seasons passed and countries changed. And as they did, so did the house. Slowly, barely noticeable at first, the atmosphere around the house grew slightly more despondent. The walls grew more dilapidated, paint peeling away. The front door was no longer bright, instead marred and decrepit. Ivy began to grow up the walls, hiding them from the world. The yard grew wild and free, choking most of the quaint stone path.

As winter set in, the house became unrecognizable from its former appearance. No longer was it welcoming or admired. Instead it became something to ignore. Ponies would walk by without a glance, unwilling to acknowledge it, for they remembered how it was. And so the house became a chilling, saddening shadow of its previously cheerful facade.

This was where Sir stood now, bordering the threshold of the door. It would be so easy to walk away. To not enter this miserable house and the woman he’d find inside. His wife he’d so grown to fear.

Things were different years ago. They were happy. She was happy. There were days when the schoolteacher would come home to her loving and caring arms. Those days were the happiest days of his life. After a long, trying day working with foals, there was nothing better than his wife’s comforting embrace. And some nights, of course, ended much better than normal.

But then the war came, and everything changed. They argued and fought some nights over small, trivial things. These arguments quickly escalated into their own personal war. There were nights, much like this one, where he didn't want to go home. Something had changed between the two of them.

Their clashes only further frayed Sir’s nerves. Most mornings he entered his classroom still brimming with anger at his wife. Despite his efforts, his home life slowly began to seep into his work. He began to snap at his students, arguing with them more. He began to notice how unruly his students were. Enjoying themselves; laughing and playing without a care. What right did they have to be innocent? But soon enough, he managed to control their rambunctious behavior. His classroom was under his control. They would be able to learn again.

Suddenly the door knob twisted in Sir’s hand. The door promptly swung open, revealing the imposing figure of his wife glowering at him.

“What are you doing, skulking around our doorstep!?” She shrieked, grabbing him by the neck and yanking him inside. “What are you doing, out so late? Should’ve been home an hour ago! Dinner is cold, you ignorant brute!”

She scowled at him and dragged him to the table. Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows on the wall. Sir’s wife’s shadow hung dauntingly over his own.

Sir looked down at the food sitting on the table. An unidentifiable mush of various foods. Cold, nonetheless. He glanced at his wife who was seating herself at the table. She caught his wandering glance.

“What?” She pointed to his plate of food. “Eat.” She wagged her finger at the plate. “Eat your food.”

Sir continued to watch her, still not speaking. What was there to say really? The moment that door opened, all of the bravado he had at the school melted away. He put on a mask of dominance in the classroom to provide a figurehead for the young ones. But at home, he knew that wasn’t the case.

The two griffons continued to watch each other, both with differing thoughts on the situation. With a cry of frustration, his wife got up from her chair and set a brisk pace into the kitchen. Sir winced in foresight, knowing what was coming. He sighed and collapsed on the floor, defeated. Tear began to swell in his eyes.

Moments later, the female griffon reentered the room wielding a rolling pin. Her beak twisted into a smile reminiscent of Sir’s during school hours.

She crept up to the huddled form of Sir and raised her arm in preparation to strike.

Whomp!

He smile grew wider as her husband let out a yelp of pain. This was proper punishment. Proper retribution for his wrongs.

WHOMP!

~-~-~-~-~

‘WHOMP!’

The ruler slapped down forcibly on my hooves. My head shot up instantaneously, clearing the last scraps of my daydream from my mind, my hooves throbbing.

“Mistah Pinkerton! Class is for learnin’! Not idle daydreamin’! Pay attention, laddie!”

With another slap of the ruler, Sir turned tail and marched back towards the front of the room.

I looked down at my hooves. A dark blue bruise was already forming where the ruler impacted earlier. Dark bruises of varying intensity mottled my normally pink coat, giving me a sickly look. It was a fashion many of the students in the class sported. Anypony with a dark colored coat had the fortune of the discoloration blending in. But for the lighter colored ones, such as myself, the forehooves were often a vastly different color than the rest of the coat.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to drive away sleep, and turned my attention to Sir. Just the sight of him made me sick. He made all of us sick. I scowled and sunk down in my seat, tracing a circle on my desk with my pencil.