Mr. Foster hated being a teacher. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, not even his wife; well, when he was married. It didn't matter what she knew now. Still, it was a secret, one he refused to reveal to himself most days. It was too painful. How could a man look himself in the face and admit that what he'd worked at for years brought him no pleasure. It was not just the tedious parts liking grading papers, preparing lessons, or dealing with unruly children and irritating parents. He hated teaching.

School is a prison, he thought, as he had on more than one occasion. The alarm blared in his ear, reverberating in his eardrum. There was a time when he'd hit that alarm quick, springing out of bed to see what the day had in store. Not long after that, the noise would bother him and he'd slap the snooze button, if only to put off the inevitable and stare at the ceiling a little longer. Now, turning the alarm off was more bothersome than its insistent blaring turning him deaf.

He stared at the ceiling's porous surface. To look upon a surface so unremarkable was meaningless, and yet it held a curious fascination for him. The longer he stared at it, an odd uneasiness overtook him, but he couldn't turn away. Above his head, the pores became dark stars on a white sky. His mind connected the black dots, forming constellations. Images took form, appearing before him as pictures in a photo album.

His hand cracked against his forehead with such a sudden sharpness that his trace broke at once. With a snap, he turned away, cold sweat clinging to his skin. What did he see? His mind wouldn't allow him to remember. To remember was to bring the horror to life. That must not happen, he reassured himself, faint shadows playing at the back of his mind. Shutting the eyes of his mind, he struggled to pull sleep back into his arms, and it kept trying to wiggle out of his grasp.

Something jostled the edge of his bed. A second later, a weight dropped on his chest, driving the wind from his lungs. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, the face of a Jack Russell gazed down on him. His white face with a black patch over one eye made him look like a pirate. "Morning, Mutt," he greeted with a groan. "Ready to face the day?" In answer, the dog edged his way closer to Mr. Foster's face, close enough to run his slobbering tongue all over the man's face.

Reaching up, Foster scratched the dog behind the year. "Alright," he agreed with a groan, sitting up. The dog sprung off his chest, bounding to the floor. He whirled around, chasing the stub of his tail. Edmund sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. The dog sprung up, pushing his forelegs against his knee. "Alright Mutt, hold your horses."

The dog's name wasn't Mutt. Mr. Foster wasn't sure what was the dog's name. Could've been anything. He called him Mutt because it was the only name the dumb dog would answer to. Truth be told, he wasn't even the schoolteacher's dog. Mutt, as he called him, showed up in his life with no fanfare. Nothing made it clear they were destined to be stuck together as man and beast. Walking out on his front door one rainy day, he found the pooch laying on the porch, sheltering himself from the foul weather. The dog was caked in mud, which he had tracked all over the porch floor. Foster couldn't remember what he said, and it was a little hazy what happened after that first meeting.

They weren't master and pet, and the dog was far from being man's best friend. They were roommates, nothing more. Their arrangement was simple. The dog slept in the hall at night and ate table scraps. During the day, Mr. Foster let him roam the island, as carefree as a dog should be. He wasn't responsible for him until the sun went down, if Mutt showed up at all. There were times when he didn't see him for days at a time. However, that wasn't the case over the last month.

It was hard for Foster to go anywhere or do anything without Mutt being close at hand. If it was only when he chopped up a chicken for dinner or went for a light jog, it wouldn't bother him. Of course that would appeal to a dog's sensibilities, but he couldn't understand why he'd stare at him when he read a book or took a shower. Sometimes, he would watch him sleep. For a roommate that came and went whenever he wanted, this was odd behavior to say the least.

The hardest part was when he had to go to school, that prison. When he let him out for the day, Mutt followed him all the way to school. The pooch occupied himself by chasing janitors, stray cats, and any passersby until the day was done. Mr. Foster smiled to himself, remembering Mutt's antics, pushing a parent to get into a screaming match with the principal. His smile suppressed a little as his own reprimand followed. Only solution was keeping him indoors all day. Each day Foster hurried home so the dog could relieve himself outside and not on his oak floor.

Mutt rushed into the bland kitchen, waiting for his breakfast. Foster looked in the fridge, stomach grumbling for food, but everything his eyes fell on made him nauseous. Turning to the cupboard, he found an old faithful. Retrieving two cans, he turned to his breakfast companion, who spun around in excitement. Mr. Foster took the only seat at the table, popping open a can of Vienna sausages, laying it on the ground. Mutt raced to it, lapping up the contents as fast as possible. With a faint grin, Foster opened his own can and ate.

With each bite, he felt his thoughts wander back to the classroom, the one place he didn't want to be. Perhaps there was a time he cared about his job, working as hard as he could to mold young minds and all that garbage. That time was long since passed, but he couldn't recall when his mind changed. "Maybe I should just quit," he wondered aloud. At this, Mutt's head perked up, glaring at him. "I know I've said it before," he replied, answering the dog's unasked question. How many times had he gone down this line of thinking? How many times had he talked himself out of it? Too many times to count, he mused.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

What would he do if he cast his career aside? Could he find a job fast enough to maintain his accustomed style of living? He grimaced to himself. Jobs were a prison and at the school, he signed up for a lifelong sentence. Did he dare to escape it? It was a risky gamble, and if it didn't go in his favor, he could lose everything.

Once again, he noticed the invisible chains that bound him hand and foot in the prison cell. Phone bills, groceries, mortgage, electricity. Each were a chain the debt collectors of the world hooked into him. When he wanted to break free, the chains pulled him back. With a cruel grin, he remembered the cruelest thought of them all. What were chains but metal string? He was a marionette dancing to their song.

At last, he found himself sitting at the same conclusion. Running through his fingers through his hair, he moaned, "It's all a cage."

And the bars are closing in, a little voice added. Life was a short thing. No escaping that. It's not as if he had an alternative. Life was a game he was in until the end. All he could do was play the game and hope that he didn't lose his shirt. And what would be my idea of winning? he wondered. That was simple. When he retired, he wanted to get as far away from people as he could. At least he would have peace and quiet as he served the rest of his sentence. The town was too noisy for his liking, even on the outskirts. There was some old crow that had a nice place out in the countryside. Perhaps I'll buy the place when he kicks the bucket.

On his kitchen table laid a little pile of novels. Each held their own bookmark. It was Foster's habit to jump from one text to the next, depending on his personal interest. That was how he spent most evenings, reading at the dinner table. When he lost himself in the texts, he paid little attention to the rigidness of the chair or the dreadful existence he lived when he wasn't reading. The one consolation of his chosen profession was that he was paid to read novels and talk about it as much as he liked. To some poor fool, that was a dream job. Set them in front of a group of apathetic children and see how much the fool likes it then.

The pile of books varied every month based on which novels he finished. He had partaken of many classics. There were few modern books that caught his eye. Too many repeated what better works said long before. All the great stories were already written, he considered. Modern authors should smash their computers, burn their notebooks, and give up. All they care about is fame anyway. In his foolish years, he too thought he could be an author. He gave up when his own work made him want to retch.

Taking the top book from the pile, he examined a cover displaying a man with cogs for a head. Plastered across the man's chest were the words Brave New World. A society born from a tube. People conditioned from conception to live a certain way, think a particular way, and fulfill a specific role in society. Everyone had a purpose. There were those that could not fit into the system. Those people were removed from society and forced to live on islands separate from the rest of the world.

Dystopia. A warning of a world that could be. Anyone who read that text would find it an atrocity. "We will never become that," they would say. Fools, he thought to himself. Couldn't even understand that the world was more similar to that dystopia than they knew. The rules they lived by were not their own. They were ingrained into their brain from childhood, training them to live and think certain ways. When they grow up, they are expected to fulfill a certain purpose in society. And what happens to those that can't fit in?

Mutt's barking snapped him back to his senses. Foster found his companion standing at the door, fur bristling. Must be a delivery, he reasoned. Since living in the house more, Mutt was far more protective of the home. However, he had the tendency to be overprotective. "C'mon, you stupid mutt," he groaned. "Shut up and let a man get some peace and quiet."

Mutt persisted. A series of harsh barks burst out from between his curled lips. Fangs snapped. Spittle flew from the dog's jaws. "Calm down, will ya?" he barked back, stomping his foot on the floor. Mutt paid no attention, continuing his yapping at whatever was on the other side of the door.

"Oh for cryin' out loud," he grunted. Tossing the book aside, he pushed himself to his feet, trudging toward the door. He'd overheard others complain about their dogs barking at nothing. Deep down, he hoped that Mutt would never become one of those. Striding to the kitchen door, he passed his shotgun, a present from his brother. Something to keep moronic tourists off his lawn. Only needed it once.

When he reached the handle, his hand hesitated. A sudden tight apprehension overcame him. At the back of his mind, he remembered stories of unaware homeowners being attacked when they opened their front door. Home invasions were quite common early in the morning. People lacked their better senses. Well, this is the back door. Little chance of that happening, he thought with a slight grin. Ignoring the tightness, he pulled the handle. The door creaked inside to reveal nothing.

His bare backyard revealed the little wire fence dividing his bit of property with his neighbor, whose name he always forgot. When the woman waved to him, he nodded. That was the extent of their relationship. It was still dark. The sun would rise soon to reveal his neighbor's pool, which he found idiotic. We're on an island, he grumbled more than once. A pool is as pointless as lips on an elbow.

Mutt kept barking. "Oh, shut up," he yelled. "There's nothing out there." He slammed the door behind him. Rubbing his chest, he tried to message the tightness, which lurked deep inside his chest. "Getting too old," he dismissed. Returning to the kitchen table, he went on dreading the day to come. Mr. Foster would get his wish. There would be no school that day. Perhaps he wouldn't go back again.

Life was full of uncertainties; and the fog rolled in.