Half-Baked Dreams

It's still too bright when I finally open my eyes again, and I shut them immediately. I do catch a gray blob hovering over me, though, and hope it's not the stallion. Or at least, I hope he doesn't start hitting me again. My everything hurts like I got hit by a hundred trains, and trying to uncurl from around my aching belly is as futile as trying to stop my silent tears. The last time I hurt so badly in so many places, I was... I was... what was it? Did it have something to do with the police? Was I a criminal?

"You're awake." Is this my punishment? No, it can't be. I'm certain the sentences passed in Equestrian criminal courts aren't this bizarre. Or, for that matter, this painful. Isn't the usual sentence community service, and maybe a few re-educational classes?

Is this community service?

"Can you move your mouth?" Thank the stars, it's just the filly. The distraction of a job to do is more than welcome, and I test my jaw, opening and shutting it and grinding my teeth together. The taste of blood returns, but it doesn't hurt too badly. I nod. "Good. I brought you some water." She holds the rim of a cup to my muzzle. I roll onto my belly, and drink when the cup follows me. The foul-tasting brew nearly comes right back up, and it takes a lot of swallowing to keep it in.

"You can't talk, can you? I don't think anypony can get hit like that and not make a sound." I shake my head and sip away the last of the water. Octavia sighs. "I wish you could. Oh well. I put medicine in the water, by the way. It might help a little with the pain." That accounts for the foul taste. Gross, but if it helps with the hurting...

"I'd better not take too long - I'm probably going to be in trouble already. Come on, I'll take you to your room for the night."

I have to open my eyes to follow her, but fortunately, it seems most of the place isn't lit as well as the dining room. On the whole, while there is very little decoration, the halls and rooms themselves are elegant and roomy; Octavia's family must be incredibly rich just to have a place like this. That explains how they can afford to buy a pony... I briefly ponder just how much it cost to purchase me, before shaking my head and banishing the topic to the moon.

"Through that door and down the stairs," the filly directs. I open a heavy door of richly-coloured oak and walk into the darkness, watching what little I can see of my hooves to avoid tumbling down the steps. Octavia comes down behind me, and when I stop and look over my shoulder, I see her head up and eyes forward. She makes it to the bottom without missing a step.

"Here is your bed." There's no furniture anywhere; at least, none that I can see. Nevertheless, I step forward to, as best I can tell, the spot on the floor that she is pointing at. It's just a big, empty basement; with no windows and apparently no lights, it's hard to see anything. At least it doesn't hurt my eyes.

"Okay, hold still." Cool metal embraces the ankles of my forelegs. I shiver, but can't pull away; my hooves stay rooted to the floor. Whimpering mutely, I tuck my tail between my hind legs and feel my ears droop. Octavia walks back up the stairs and stops at the top, her silhouette casting a shadow over what little I can see. It takes a few moments for her to speak.

"Daddy also said it's nice to have somepony who can take more of--than--than--" She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

The door shuts behind her, and full darkness settles in. The lock clicks, loudly enough that it has to have been designed for the sense of finality and foreboding that ties knots in my throat. I can do little besides stare at the invisible wall in front of me, and wait.

As I take my quiet, measured steps down the hall, my thoughts turn from the white mare towards Father. The distraction is a relief. I stop at the door to his bedroom, knock gently twice, and stare up at the tower of finished hardwood while I wait for him to respond. Though differently cut, and though designed and styled with far greater elegance, it is the same wood with the same finish as the floor and furniture, and as many of the would-be decorative items throughout the house. Everything here is as hard, but tonight is special. Tonight, the manor has lost much of its rigidity.

Today, for the first time, he bent to my will. I linger in the memory--his hoof, for once, stopping at my plea. Mine was not a dignified victory, but it was a victory. It would not be the last. I smile at the engraving in the wood in front of me. Slowly, but surely, I will thwart him. Slowly, but surely, I will overcome him. I know my smile is unpleasant, and I am fairly certain I am late and will be punished again, but I do not care.

The door swings open, and I hurriedly let my face relax back to its placid mask. It's not good enough.

"Stop looking at me that way, Octavia." I'm not certain what he means, as my expression feels as empty and bland as I can make it, but I quickly turn my eyes to the floor. There is too harsh an edge to his voice to brook any question or argument.

"Sorry, sir. I won't do it again." Once I figure out what I did wrong, anyway. Though my eyes are averted, I can still feel him sneering and looming over me.

"See that you don't, filly. Why are you bothering me?"

"I'm feeling a bit lost. I don't know where you want me to sleep tonight." This is true, at least. The new pony's arrival had to be met with a lot of changes around the house, he'd told me, and I had been the one to do much of the work. My former bedroom was hastily re-purposed in the process, to my immense but carefully-hidden joy.

Father pretends to consider the question. I know he's already decided. But decorum, child, decorum, as he has always told me. Even he bows to its tedious rules. We both wait the appropriate amount of time, and he must be the one to break the silence.

"You will sleep in the room I allowed you before," he says. My blood chills, and I can feel the frostbite creeping through my coat. No. I thought I had seen the last of that place! The tiny measure of pride, that little glimmer of hope I had scraped together in the wake of that suddenly-inconsequential triumph at dinner, deflates, leaving only a horrible tightness in my chest. Why? What did I mess up now?!

"But--"

"But me no buts. Go to bed, foal." I nod, let my head drop, and shudder as I turn back towards the stairs. My hooves are leaden, and my best efforts barely lift each one as I go. I thought I had rid myself of that... place. I had grown accustomed, even up to last night, but its return... it's like somepony saved my violin from a fall, only to smash it against a rock for laughs.

"Where are you going?" Father snaps.

"To bed, sir." Thankfully, the cold in me begins to fade into a creeping numbness that lets my tone stay steady and demure. It's when my heart is muffled like this that I think and do my best; I was stupid to allow feelings - like vindication or fear - to take over.

"Other way." That's all Father says before stepping back inside his room and shutting the door. His hoofsteps recede as I pause. What room could he mean, if not... that? I don't have a room on this upper floor, and there's no other way back to the stairs.

Unless...

I turn about quickly, and