The bread was black.

I held it in my hand. It was warm. It smelled of ash. And of honey.

I am not a saint.

I am not a villain.

I am just hungry.

The room is white.

Not the white of snow.

Not the white of paper.

It is the white of bone.

It is the white of absence.

I sit on a chair.

The chair is made of glass.

It is cold.

It cuts into my thighs.

I do not move.

I cannot move.

My legs are lead.

My mind is wire.

Across the table sits a man.

He is old.

His face is a map of wrinkles.

His eyes are bright.

They are the color of ice.

He does not look at me.

He looks at the plate in front of him.

The plate is empty.

He picks up a fork.

He stirs the air.

He makes a sound.

A low hum.

It vibrates in my teeth.

"Is it ready?" he asks.

His voice is soft.

It is like dry leaves.

"I don't know," I say.

My voice is strange.

It is thin.

It is mine, but it is not mine.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"I want to eat."

He smiles.

It is not a nice smile.

It is a sad smile.

"Everyone wants to eat," he says. "That is why we are here."

I look at the bread in my hand.

It is getting darker.

The honey is seeping into the ash.

It is turning into syrup.

Thick. Black. Sweet.

I lift it to my mouth.

I bite.

It is hot.

It burns my tongue.

It burns my throat.

It tastes of iron.

It tastes of regret.

I swallow.

It goes down like a stone.

It settles in my stomach.

It is heavy.

It is there.

The man watches me.

His eyes do not blink.

"Did you enjoy it?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

It is a lie.

I know it is a lie.

He knows it is a lie.

We both know it.

But we say it anyway.

"Good," he says.

He puts his fork down.

He leans back.

The glass chair creaks.

"Tell me about the garden," he says.

"There is no garden," I say.

"Of course there is," he says. "You planted it."

I try to remember.

My memory is fog.

I see green.

I see dirt.

I see my hands.

They are buried to the wrists.

I am digging.

I am digging for something.

I don't know what.

I am digging until my fingers bleed.

The man taps the table.

*Tick.*

*Tick.*

*Tick.*

"Time is short," he says.

I feel the pressure.

It is in my chest.

It is a vice.

It is squeezing.

I want to run.

I want to scream.

I cannot move.

I am a statue.

I am a prisoner in my own body.

Who am I?

I am the one who broke the promise.

I am the one who let the fire burn.

I am the one who watched and did nothing.

The guilt is a weight.

It is heavier than the bread.

It is heavier than the chair.

It is heavier than the world.

The man stands up.

He is tall.

He is thin.

He looks like a willow tree.

He walks around the table.

He stops in front of me.

He smells of rain.

He smells of earth.

He reaches out his hand.

He touches my cheek.

His finger is cold.

It is like a snake.

It slides over my skin.

"Look," he says.

I look.

The table is gone.

The chair is gone.

The white room is gone.

I am standing in a field.

The sky is purple.

The stars are too close.

They are hanging above me.

I can hear them humming.

In front of me is a tree.

It is an apple tree.

It is bare.

It is dead.

But there is fruit on the branches.

Black apples.

They are hanging there.

They are swinging.

*Swish.*

*Swish.*

*Swish.*

I walk toward the tree.

My feet sink into the soil.

The soil is warm.

It is like blood.

I reach up.

I pick an apple.

It is heavy.

It is pulsing.

It is alive.

I bring it to my mouth.

I bite.

The skin breaks.

The juice runs down my chin.

It is black.

It is sweet.

It is bitter.

It tastes of forgiveness.

Or maybe it tastes of sin.

I don't know.

I keep eating.

I eat and eat.

The apples disappear.

My stomach expands.

I am full.

I am too full.

I am bursting.

The man is behind me.

He is watching.

He is smiling.

"Is that enough?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

I drop the core.

It falls to the ground.

It hits the earth.

A sound echoes.

*Boom.*

The tree shakes.

The stars fall.

The purple sky tears.

I am back in the white room.

I am sitting in the glass chair.

The bread is in my hand.

It is gone.

There is only ash.

The man is sitting across from me.

He looks at me.

His eyes are wet.

"Thank you," he says.

I don't understand.

"Why?" I ask.

He stands up.

He walks to the door.

There is a door now.

It was not there before.

It is made of wood.

It is old.

It is cracked.

He opens it.

Light floods in.

It is golden.

It is warm.

It is the light of dawn.

"I have to go," he says.

"Where?" I ask.

"To the place where you went," he says.

I look at him.

I look at my hands.

They are clean.

There is no ash.

There is no blood.

There is no guilt.

I feel light.

I feel empty.

I feel free.

I stand up.

The chair does not cut me.

I walk to the door.

I look back.

The room is empty.

The table is gone.

The plates are gone.

There is only the white.

The white of bone.

The white of absence.

I step through the door.

The light takes me.

It wraps around me.

It holds me.

I am floating.

I am falling.

I am rising.

I am nothing.

I am everything.

The hunger is gone.

The silence is gone.

There is only the breath.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I open my eyes.

I am in a hospital bed.

The sheets are white.

The walls are white.

The machines are beeping.

*Bip.*

*Bip.*

*Bip.*

I look at my hand.

There is a tube in my vein.

It is clear.

I look at the window.

It is night.

The stars are out.

They are distant.

They are cold.

I remember the tree.

I remember the apples.

I remember the taste.

Black.

Sweet.

Bitter.

I close my eyes.

I wait.

The light is coming.

I am not afraid.

I am ready.

The bread is in my mouth.

I chew.

I swallow.

I am full.

I am done.

The silence is not empty.

It is full of love.

It is full of truth.

It is full of me.

I let go.

I let go.

I let go.

The darkness is kind.

It is soft.

It is like a blanket.

I sink into it.

I am safe.

I am home.

The end.