You are alone.

The rain is cold. It soaks through your coat. You do not move. You stand in the alley. The trash cans are black. They smell like rot. You smell it. You know it. It is the smell of what you left behind. You hold the bag. It is heavy. It is wet. It is leaking.

Who are you?

You do not know.

You were someone else once. You had a name. You had a face. You had a home with blue shutters. You had a garden. The garden had roses. The roses were red. They were beautiful. You killed them. You killed the garden. You killed the house. You ran. You ran with the bag.

The bag is food.

It is not just food. It is a promise. It is a debt. It is a weapon. You carry it like a bomb. You carry it like a baby. You are careful. You are light. You are fast.

A light turns on.

It is yellow. It is harsh. It cuts the rain. You see the door. It is green. It is old. It is painted a sickly green. You stop. You breathe. Your breath is white.

You know this place.

You do not remember coming here.

You remember the door. You remember the key. You have the key. It is in your pocket. It is cold iron. It burns your thigh. You take it out. You look at it. It is a skeleton key. It is ancient. It does not match any lock you have seen in this city. But it fits this door. You know it fits.

You insert the key.

The lock clicks.

It is loud. It is sharp. It sounds like a bone breaking. You push the door. It swings open. It does not creak. It is silent.

You step inside.

The air is warm.

It is dry. It smells of earth. It smells of sugar. It smells of life. It is not a greenhouse. It is a room. It is a large room. The walls are glass. The ceiling is glass. The floor is glass. You are standing on glass.

You look up.

There are no stars. There are no clouds. There is only the rain. It falls on the glass. It runs down in streaks. It makes the world outside blurry. The world inside is sharp.

There is a table.

The table is wood. It is dark. It is polished. On the table is a bowl. The bowl is white. The bowl is full.

You walk to the table.

Your feet do not make a sound. The glass is warm. It is alive. You feel a pulse. It is slow. It is strong. It matches your heartbeat.

You look at the bowl.

It is full of apples.

They are red. They are perfect. They are shiny. They are wet. They are not real. They are made of glass. They are made of light. They are made of memory.

You reach out.

Your hand shakes. Your fingers are long. Your nails are dirty. You touch an apple.

It is hard.

It is cold.

It is smooth.

You pull it out of the bowl.

It does not fall. It stays in your hand. It is heavy. It is infinite. You lift it to your mouth. You bite into it.

It crunches.

It is loud.

It is sweet.

It is bitter.

It is the taste of your mother’s voice. It is the taste of your father’s silence. It is the taste of the soil under your fingernails. It is the taste of the blood you spilled.

You chew.

You swallow.

It is gone.

It is in you.

It is in the glass floor. It is in the glass walls. It is in the rain.

You are not alone.

There is someone else in the room.

You turn around.

You see him.

He is sitting in a chair.

The chair is glass.

He is wearing a suit.

The suit is black.

It is torn.

It is stained.

He is smiling.

His teeth are white.

His eyes are black.

He is you.

He is not you.

He is the one you left behind.

He is the one who stayed.

He is the one who killed the garden.

He is the one who burned the house.

He is the one who ran.

He is the one who did not run.

He is the one who is here.

You look at him.

He looks at you.

He speaks.

His voice is yours.

It is soft.

It is kind.

It is cruel.

"Did you bring it?" he asks.

You do not answer.

You look at the bag in your hand.

It is empty.

It is wet.

It is torn.

You look at him.

He nods.

"You brought it," he says.

You drop the bag.

It hits the glass floor.

It makes a sound.

It is a dull thud.

It is the sound of a body falling.

It is the sound of a heart stopping.

It is the sound of a truth arriving.

You did not bring the food.

You brought the guilt.

You brought the shame.

You brought the fear.

You brought the hunger.

You are hungry.

You are always hungry.

You are never full.

He stands up.

He walks to you.

He is tall.

He is strong.

He is gentle.

He touches your face.

His hand is warm.

His hand is dry.

His hand is real.

"You are safe," he says.

You do not believe him.

You are a liar.

You are a thief.

You are a killer.

You are a monster.

You are a ghost.

You are a dream.

You are a lie.

He knows you.

He knows everything.

He knows the name you forgot.

He knows the face you hid.

He knows the home you lost.

He knows the garden you ruined.

He knows the roses you killed.

He knows the blood you spilled.

He knows the rain that follows you.

He knows the bag you carry.

He knows the key you hold.

He knows the lock you opened.

He knows the apple you ate.

He knows the taste of it.

He knows the hunger it created.

He knows the hunger it will never satisfy.

He knows you are here.

He knows you are trapped.

He knows you are free.

He knows you are lost.

He knows you are found.

He knows you are dead.

He knows you are alive.

He knows you are both.

He knows you are neither.

He knows you are everything.

He knows you are nothing.

He smiles.

He opens his mouth.

He shows you his teeth.

They are glass.

They are sharp.

They are beautiful.

He bites into the air.

He chews.

He swallows.

He looks at you.

He points to the door.

The door is closed.

The key is in your pocket.

You take it out.

It is warm.

It is alive.

It is beating.

You insert it into the lock.

The lock does not click.

The lock does not turn.

The lock is gone.

The door is gone.

The wall is glass.

You are behind the glass.

He is behind the glass.

You are together.

You are apart.

You are one.

You are two.

You are many.

You are few.

You are here.

You are there.

You are now.

You are then.

You are always.

You are never.

The rain stops.

The light fades.

The glass clears.

You see the world.

It is dark.

It is silent.

It is empty.

It is full.

It is you.

It is him.

It is the bag.

It is the key.

It is the apple.

It is the taste.

It is the hunger.

It is the fear.

It is the guilt.

It is the shame.

It is the love.

It is the hate.

It is the life.

It is the death.

It is the end.

It is the beginning.

It is the middle.

It is the truth.

It is the lie.

It is the story.

It is the silence.

It is the sound.

It is the breath.

It is the heart.

It is the soul.

It is the body.

It is the mind.

It is the spirit.

It is the ghost.

It is the dream.

It is the nightmare.

It is the waking.

It is the sleeping.

It is the living.

It is the dying.

It is the rising.

It is the falling.

It is the staying.

It is the going.

It is the coming.

It is the leaving.

It is the arriving.

It is the departing.

It is the remaining.

It is the vanishing.

It is the appearing.

It is the disappearing.

It is the being.

It is the not being.

It is the is.

It is the is not.

It is the was.

It is the was not.

It is the will be.

It is the will not be.

It is the has been.

It is the has not been.

It is the will have been.

It is the will not have been.

It is the is being.

It is the is not being.

It is the was being.

It is the was not being.

It is the will be being.

It is the will not be being.

It is the has been being.

It is the has not been being.

It is the will have been being.

It is the will not have been being.

It is the is.

It is the is.

It is the is.

It is the is.

It is the is.