The mud is thick in your boots. It pulls at your heels with a wet, sucking sound that matches the rhythm of your breathing. You are running. The air tastes of coal smoke and iron. Behind you, the screams of the strikers echo off the brick walls of the mill district, a chaotic symphony of pain and rage. You hold your truncheon tight. Your knuckles are white. You are not angry. You are efficient.

The crowd is a wall. A moving, heaving wall of men and women in gray coats. They see the blue uniform and they see the badge. They do not see you. They see the law. They see the state. You are a tool. A blunt instrument of order.

A rock flies past your ear. It hits the cobblestones and shatters. Sparks fly. You do not flinch. You have been trained to not flinch. You step forward. You strike. The impact is dull and heavy. The man staggers. He falls. You do not look at his face. You look at the next man. The next. The next.

This is the work. This is what you signed up for. To keep the peace. To hold the line. The factory owners pay for this. The police chief pays for this. You are paid to be a wall against the tide of poverty and desperation.

The sun is low. It hangs over the smog like a bruised orange. The light is flat and yellow. It turns the sweat on your forehead into gold. You feel a thud against your ribs. A shoulder. Hard. You stumble. You catch yourself. Your heart hammers against your spine.

"Get them!" someone shouts.

You push. You shove. The crowd presses back. You are in the center of it. You are the axis. You are the point of conflict. You are the problem.

You see a face. A woman. Her hair is loose. Her eyes are wide. She is holding a child. The child is crying. The woman is not fighting. She is watching. Her gaze is fixed on you. It is not hatred. It is not fear. It is recognition.

You freeze.

For a second, the noise fades. The shouting. The crashing of glass. The sound of boots on stone. It all recedes. There is only her face. And your own reflection in the puddle at her feet.

You see yourself.

You are not a hero. You are not a villain. You are a man in a uniform. You are a man who has forgotten his name. You have been Edward Ashworth for twenty years. But in this moment, in this yellow light, you are just a body. A vessel for the state’s violence.

The woman looks away. She turns. She walks into the crowd. The crowd closes over her. She is gone.

You are alone again.

The shouting returns. The rock hits your shoulder. You fall.

You lie in the mud. The sky is above you. It is gray and infinite. You try to breathe. Your lungs burn. The taste of blood is in your mouth.

You remember the house.

The house on the hill. The white porch. The garden. Margaret is there. She is always there. She is waiting.

She is not waiting.

You know this now.

She left three days ago. She did not take the children. She took her dress. She took her books. She took the silence. She took the truth.

You did not know she was leaving. You were at the station. You were on duty. You were always on duty.

You think you missed her. You think you missed the life.

You did not miss the life. You missed the comfort. You missed the way she made the world make sense. She was the anchor. You were the ship. And the sea was rising.

You are tired.

You are so tired.

The truncheon is still in your hand. You look at it. The wood is dark with use. It is a weapon. It is a symbol. It is a lie.

You drop it.

It hits the ground with a crack.

You stand up.

The crowd is still there. They are looking at you. They are waiting for you to fight. They are waiting for you to be the monster.

You walk away.

You walk toward the station. You walk away from the violence. You walk away from the duty. You walk away from the self you have built.

The station is a stone fortress. The doors are heavy. The air inside is cold and stale. The smell of sweat and tobacco and old paper.

Chief Whitmore is at his desk. He is drinking tea. His face is red. He looks at you. He sees the blood on your uniform. He sees the mud. He sees the emptiness in your eyes.

"Where are you going, Ashworth?" he asks.

His voice is sharp. It is a command.

"I am resigning," you say.

Your voice is quiet. It is steady.

He laughs. It is a dry, barking sound.

"You are in the middle of a riot," he says. "You cannot resign in the middle of a riot."

"I am not here," you say. "I was never here."

He stops laughing. He looks at you. He sees the change. He sees the crack in the armor.

"You are a cop," he says. "That is who you are. That is what you are. You cannot choose to be something else."

"I choose to be a man," you say.

He stands up. He is a large man. His face is angry.

"You are a traitor," he says. "You are a coward."

"I am free," you say.

He hits you.

His hand connects with your jaw. The pain is sharp. It is real. It is the first real thing you have felt in years.

You do not hit back.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The night is cold. The rain has started. It is fine and misty. It soaks your clothes. It soaks your skin.

You walk out into the street.

The riot is still going on. The sound of it is distant now. It is a rumble in the distance. It is a ghost.

You walk to the edge of the city. The factories are there. The smoke rises from the chimneys. It mixes with the clouds. It turns the sky purple.

You look at the smoke.

You look at the light.

You see the transformation.

The smoke is not just smoke. It is the breath of the city. It is the breath of the people. It is the breath of the machines. It is the breath of the state.

You are part of it.

You are not separate.

You are connected.

You are not the wall.

You are the ground.

You walk on.

You do not know where you are going.

You do not care.

You are alive.

You are free.

You are Edward Ashworth.

And you are gone.

The rain falls.

The smoke rises.

The night is long.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The world is quiet.

The world is loud.

You are in between.

You are in the space.

You are in the choice.

You have chosen.

You have defined yourself.

You have let go.

You have put down the truncheon.

You have put down the badge.

You have put down the self.

You are light.

You are air.

You are smoke.

You are gone.

The story is over.

The story is just beginning.

You are here.

You are now.

You are free.

The rain stops.

The sun rises.

The city wakes.

You are part of it.

You are the city.

You are the smoke.

You are the light.

You are the choice.

You are the self.

You are the end.

You are the start.

You are the man.

You are the ghost.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the silence.

You are the shout.

You are the love.

You are the loss.

You are the pain.

You are the joy.

You are the life.

You are the death.

You are the everything.

You are the nothing.

You are the one.

You are the many.

You are the center.

You are the edge.

You are the inside.

You are the outside.

You are the now.

You are the then.

You are the here.

You are the there.

You are the real.

You are the imagined.

You are the dreamed.

You are the lived.

You are the remembered.

You are the forgotten.

You are the known.

You are the unknown.

You are the seen.

You are the unseen.

You are the heard.

You are the unheard.

You are the felt.

You are the unfelt.

You are the touched.

You are the untouched.

You are the held.

You are the released.

You are the kept.

You are the lost.

You are the found.

You are the searched.

You are the sought.

You are the caught.

You are the escaped.

You are the trapped.

You are the free.

You are the bound.

You are the unbound.

You are the tied.

You are the cut.

You are the whole.

You are the broken.

You are the mended.

You are the cracked.

You are the solid.

You are the soft.

You are the hard.

You are the warm.

You are the cold.

You are the bright.

You are the dark.

You are the light.

You are the shadow.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the reality.

You are the illusion.

You are the fact.

You are the fiction.

You are the story.

You are the reader.

You are the writer.

You are the voice.

You are the word.

You are the sentence.

You are the paragraph.

You are the page.

You are the book.

You are the shelf.

You are the library.

You are the mind.

You are the soul.

You are the spirit.

You are the body.

You are the heart.

You are the mind.

You are the will.

You are the choice.

You are the self.

You are the man.

You are the woman.

You are the child.

You are the parent.

You are the stranger.

You are the friend.

You are the enemy.

You are the lover.

You are the spouse.

You are the partner.

You are the other.

You are the same.

You are the different.

You are the one.

You are the all.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the middle.

You are the path.

You are the road.

You are the journey.

You are the destination.

You are the arrival.

You are the departure.

You are the waiting.

You are the going.

You are the staying.

You are the leaving.

You are the coming.

You are the being.

You are the having.

You are the doing.

You are the making.

You are the breaking.

You are the fixing.

You are the finding.

You are the losing.

You are the gaining.

You are the spending.

You are the saving.

You are the giving.

You are the taking.

You are the sharing.

You are the keeping.

You are the hiding.

You are the showing.

You are the hiding.

You are the revealing.

You are the concealing.

You are the exposing.

You are the protecting.

You are the attacking.

You are the defending.

You are the fighting.

You are the yielding.

You are the resisting.

You are the accepting.

You are the rejecting.

You are the embracing.

You are the letting go.

You are the holding on.

You are the dropping.

You are the catching.

You are the falling.

You are the rising.

You are the sinking.

You are the floating.

You are the drowning.

You are the swimming.

You are the breathing.

You are the gasping.

You are the sighing.

You are the crying.

You are the laughing.

You are the smiling.

You are the frowning.

You are the nodding.

You are the shaking.

You are the moving.

You are the stilling.

You are the acting.

You are the reacting.

You are the feeling.

You are the thinking.

You are the knowing.

You are the not knowing.

You are the understanding.

You are the misunderstanding.

You are the seeing.

You are the blinding.

You are the hearing.

You are the deafening.

You are the touching.

You are the numbing.

You are the tasting.

You are the numbing.

You are the smelling.

You are the choking.

You are the sensing.

You are the numbing.

You are the feeling.

You are the numbing.

You are the being.

You are the nothing.

You are the everything.

You are the end.