The cake was cold.

I looked at it. It sat on the white paper plate, a square of chocolate sponge, dense and dry. A single candle, unlit, stood in the center. It was a white pillar. It looked like a bone.

"Happy birthday, Thomas," I said.

My voice sounded thin. It scraped against the air in the small room. The walls were painted a pale blue. The paint was peeling near the baseboard. Flakes of it lay on the floor like dead skin.

My mother did not answer. She sat in the corner, in the old armchair. The one with the torn velvet seat. She wrapped her hands around her knees. Her fingers were white. Knuckles swollen. She looked at the cake. She did not look at me.

"I brought you cake," I said.

My hands were shaking. I held the fork in my right hand. The metal was cold. It bit into my skin. I dropped it. It clattered on the floor. A sharp sound. It echoed.

My mother flinched. Her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide. Dark circles under them. She looked at me. Then she looked at the floor.

"Pick it up," she said.

Her voice was low. A rasp. Like dry leaves rubbing together.

I picked it up. My knees hurt. The concrete floor was hard. It seeped through my jeans. I stood. I brushed the dust off my hand.

"Sorry, Mom."

She didn't speak. She went back to looking at the wall. The clock on the wall ticked. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It was too loud. It filled the room. It filled my head.

I am a prisoner.

That is what they say. They say I am locked in here. In this apartment. In this city. They say I cannot leave. They say I am dangerous. They say I am broken.

I am not broken. I am whole. I am the only thing that is whole.

The cake was waiting for me. I cut a slice. My knife scraped against the plate. The sound was grating. I hated it. I hated the noise. I hated the way the cake crumbled. It fell apart. Piece by piece. It shattered into dust.

I ate it.

It tasted like nothing. It tasted like ash. I swallowed. My throat was tight. I drank from the glass of water on the table. The glass was cracked. A thin line ran down the side. I held it with both hands. The water was cold.

My mother watched me. Her eyes were still. She did not blink.

"You look thin," she said.

"I am fine."

"You are lying."

She stood up. The chair scraped back. The noise was sudden. I jumped. My heart hammered against my ribs. Like a bird in a cage.

She walked to the window. The curtains were drawn. Thick, heavy fabric. Dark red. They smelled of dust and old lavender. She pulled them back.

The light came in.

It was bright. Blinding. It hit my face. I squinted. I turned away. The street below was empty. People walked by. They looked up. They saw me. I saw their eyes.

They saw the stain.

The stain is on my soul. They see it. It is black. It is in my hair. It is in my clothes. It is in my eyes. They know what I did. They know what I am.

My mother stood by the window. She held the curtain in her hand. The fabric bunched up. It looked like a fist.

"Look at them," she said.

"I don't want to look."

"You have to."

"They look at me, Mom. They look at me like I am dirt."

"They look at you like you are a ghost."

She turned to me. Her face was hard. Like stone. She stepped closer. She smelled of soap and fear.

"You are not a ghost, Thomas. You are a man. A man who made a mistake."

"It is not a mistake. It is a crime."

"Is it?"

She touched my cheek. Her hand was cold. I leaned into it. I wanted to melt into her hand. I wanted to disappear.

"Remember the summer?" she asked.

I closed my eyes. I tried to forget. I tried to push the memory away. But it was there. It was always there.

The lake. The water was blue. The air was hot. We were young. I was eight. I was happy. I remember the smell of the pine trees. I remember the sound of the boat engine. My father was driving. He was laughing. My mother was singing. A song I cannot remember now.

We were on the water. We were free.

Then the boat stopped. The engine coughed. It died. The silence was sudden. It was heavy. My father jumped into the water. He said he would fix it. He swam to the back. I stayed on the boat. I watched him. He was strong. He was safe.

Then he did not come back.

The water was still. There was no splash. There was no cry. He just stopped moving. I waited. I waited for him to surface. I waited for him to laugh. I waited for him to say, "I am here, Tom."

He did not come.

The sun set. The water turned black. I was alone. I was eight years old. I was alone in the dark. I screamed. I screamed until my voice broke. But no one came. The boat drifted. The wind pushed it to the shore. I found my way home. I did not tell anyone. I could not. I was afraid. I was ashamed.

I am the sinner. I am the one who did not save him.

I opened my eyes. My mother was watching me. Her eyes were wet. But she did not cry. She held my face in her hands. She squeezed.

"You did not kill him, Thomas. The water took him. The engine failed. You were a child."

"He is gone because of me."

"No. He is gone because he is gone. You are alive. That is all that matters."

"I am a burden. I am a stain."

"You are my son."

The words hit me. They were sharp. They cut deep. I pulled away. I stepped back. I backed into the wall. My breath was short. Quick gasps.

"I cannot be your son. I am not clean. I am dirty. I am the thing they fear."

My mother walked toward me. She moved slowly. She did not rush. She did not threaten. She just walked.

She reached out. She took my hand. Her grip was tight. She pulled me to the table. She pointed to the cake.

"Eat," she said.

"I cannot."

"Eat."

She picked up the fork. She cut a piece. She held it to my mouth. I turned my head away.

"Eat, Thomas. Or I will stop coming."

My heart stopped.

If she stops coming, I am alone. I am truly alone. I am in the dark. On the boat. I am eight years old again.

I opened my mouth.

She put the cake in.

It was sweet. It was rich. It tasted like chocolate. It tasted like sugar. It tasted like life.

I chewed. I swallowed.

She cut another piece.

"Eat."

I ate.

She cut another piece.

I ate.

The plate was full. The cake was gone. It was just crumbs. Dust.

I looked at the plate. It was empty.

My mother smiled. It was a small smile. It was tired. It was sad. But it was real.

"Good," she said.

She wiped my mouth with her handkerchief. Her hand was warm.

"I love you," she said.

"I know."

"I will always love you. Even if you are a monster. Even if you are a ghost. I will love you."

I looked at her. I saw her face. I saw the lines around her eyes. I saw the gray in her hair. I saw the fear. But I saw the love. It was there. It was strong. It was like a fire. It burned in her chest. It burned in mine.

I am free.

I am not free.

I am chained to her love. I am chained to my guilt. I am chained to the past.

But I am alive.

The door opened.

It was the police officer. He stood in the hallway. He looked at me. He looked at my mother. He looked at the empty plate.

"Is he okay?" he asked.

My mother did not answer. She held my hand. She squeezed.

"He is eating," she said.

The officer nodded. He left. The door closed.

The silence returned. The clock ticked. Tick. Tock.

I looked at my mother. She was still holding my hand.

"Let me go," I said.

"No."

"Let me go, Mom. I want to leave. I want to run. I want to be free."

"You are free," she said. "You are here. You are with me. That is your freedom."

I looked at the window. The light was fading. The night was coming. The shadows were lengthening.

I looked at my mother. I squeezed her hand.

"I am sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"For hurting you. For making you carry this. For being a burden."

She shook her head.

"You are not a burden. You are my life. You are my reason. Do not you dare say you are a burden."

Her voice was hard. It was fierce. It was the voice of a mother defending her cub.

I nodded. I pulled her hand. I pulled her close. She leaned into me. Her head rested on my shoulder. She was small. She was fragile. But she was strong.

I held her. I held her tight. I held her as if I would never let go. I held her as if my life depended on it.

The cake was gone. The plate was empty. The room was quiet.

I am not free. I am trapped in her love. I am trapped in my guilt. I am trapped in the past.

But I am safe.

I am home.

The night came. The stars came out. I looked out the window. The city was dark. The lights were on. The people were sleeping.

I am awake. I will always be awake. I will always be here. I will always be with her.

I am the prisoner. I am the guard. I am the one who stays.

I closed my eyes. I breathed. In. Out.

I am here.

I am here.

I am here.