You wake up.

The light is gray. It presses against the windowpane. You are in the bedroom. The sheets are damp. You do not move. You feel the weight of your body. It is heavy. It is wrong. You look at your hands. They are pale. The veins stand out. They look blue. They look like cracks in ice.

You sit up.

The room is small. The walls are white. There is a painting of a dog. The dog looks sad. You stand. Your legs shake. You walk to the mirror. The glass is cold. You touch it. Your breath fogs the surface. You see your face. It is thin. The eyes are dark. You look old. You are not old. You are thirty-two.

You go to the kitchen.

The floor is hard. It hurts your feet. You wear socks. The socks are white. They have a hole in the toe. You do not care. You open the fridge. The light inside is bright. It hurts. You take out a carton of milk. You take out a loaf of bread. The bread is stale. You do not care.

You make toast.

The toaster pops. The bread is black. You scrape it. The crumbs fall on the counter. You do not clean them. You eat. The bread is hard. It is dry. It tastes like dust. You chew. You swallow. It is difficult. Your throat is tight.

You think about the pills.

They are in the drawer. The drawer is under the sink. You open it. The bottle is there. The label is white. The text is small. You do not read it. You know what it says. You shake the bottle. The pills rattle. They sound like bones.

You take one out.

It is white. It is round. It is smooth. You put it in your mouth. You do not chew. You swallow it dry. It sticks. You cough. Your face turns red. You try to breathe. You cannot. Your chest tightens. Your heart beats fast. It beats hard. It beats wrong.

You lean against the counter.

The counter is cold. The tile is white. You look at your hand. The pill is gone. You did not swallow it. It is in your palm. It is wet. It is melting. The white powder spreads. It looks like snow. It looks like ash.

You drop it.

It hits the floor. It breaks. It shatters into pieces. Tiny shards. White fragments. They scatter. They roll. They stop.

You stare at them.

They are gone. They are dust. They are nothing.

You laugh.

It is a small sound. It is dry. It comes from deep inside you. It feels like a crack in a vase. You laugh again. You laugh harder. Your shoulders shake. Your face twists. It is not a happy laugh. It is not a sad laugh. It is a laugh that has no reason. It is a laugh that is free.

The door opens.

It is your mother.

She stands in the doorway. She holds a basket. The basket is full of laundry. She looks at you. Her eyes are wide. Her mouth is open. She does not speak. She does not move. She sees the shards on the floor. She sees your face. She sees the milk on the counter. She sees the stale bread.

She drops the basket.

The clothes spill out. White sheets. Blue towels. They cover the floor. They cover the shards. She walks toward you. Her steps are slow. Her face is pale. Her hands are trembling. She reaches for you. Her fingers touch your arm. They are cold.

"Margaret," she says.

Her voice is soft. It is thin. It breaks on the name.

You look at her. You do not know her. You do not want to know her. You pull away. You back up. Your heel hits the shards. They crunch. They grind. It sounds like glass. It sounds like teeth.

"Go away," you say.

Your voice is strange. It is not yours. It is rough. It is low.

She does not go. She steps over the clothes. She steps over the glass. She does not flinch. She reaches for your face. She touches your cheek. Her thumb wipes a tear. You do not remember crying.

"Mom," you say.

The word is heavy. It is a stone. It sinks into your chest.

She pulls you into a hug. It is tight. It is hard. It hurts. You are small. She is big. She smells like soap. She smells like fear. You do not push her away. You let her hold you. You let her hold you tight.

You feel her heart beating. It is fast. It is scared. It is alive.

You close your eyes.

The darkness is warm. The darkness is safe. You are not alone. You are not free. You are not broken. You are held.

The pain is there. It is in your chest. It is in your head. It is in your bones. But it is distant. It is far away. It is like a radio playing in another room. You can hear it. You do not have to listen.

You stay there.

You stay there for a long time.

The light changes. The gray turns to gold. The sun moves across the floor. The shards catch the light. They sparkle. They are beautiful. They are dangerous. They are still there.

She lets go.

She steps back. She looks at you. Her eyes are red. Her face is wet. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is weak. It is real.

"Let's eat," she says.

You nod.

You walk to the table. The table is wooden. It is scratched. You sit down. She sits opposite you. She puts a plate in front of you. The plate is white. It is simple.

There is toast on it.

It is fresh. It is golden. It is soft.

There is butter.

It is yellow. It is melting. It is warm.

You pick up the toast. Your hand is steady. Your fingers are pale. They are strong. You break the toast. It splits cleanly. No crumbs. No dust. No shattering.

You eat.

It is good. It is sweet. It is easy.

She watches you. She eats her own toast. She eats slowly. She eats carefully. She does not speak. She does not ask. She does not judge. She just is there.

You finish the toast.

You drink the milk. It is cold. It is smooth. It goes down your throat. It does not stick. It does not hurt.

You feel full.

You feel heavy.

You feel real.

The pain is back.

It is not gone. It is not cured. It is not fixed. It is there. It is in your body. It is in your mind. It is a fact. Like gravity. Like time. Like death.

But you are not fighting it.

You are not trying to break it. You are not trying to shatter it. You are not trying to be free from it. You are sitting with it. You are holding it. You are letting it be.

The sun is high now.

The room is bright. The shadows are short. The dog in the painting looks less sad. It looks peaceful. It looks like it is resting.

You stand up.

Your legs are strong. Your feet are solid. You walk to the sink. You pick up the shards. One by one. You hold them in your hand. They are sharp. They cut your skin. A drop of blood falls. It is red. It is bright. It is life.

You put them in a bag.

You tie the bag. You put it in the trash.

The floor is clean.

The counter is clean.

The room is clean.

You look in the mirror again.

Your face is the same. Your eyes are dark. Your cheeks are thin. You are still you. You are still broken. You are still whole.

You pick up your bag.

You walk to the door.

You open it.

The hallway is long. The carpet is blue. The air is cool. The air is fresh.

You step out.

The world is there. It is loud. It is bright. It is hard. It is real.

You do not run.

You do not hide.

You walk.

You walk slowly. You walk carefully. You walk toward the light.

The pain is with you.

You carry it.

You carry it like a stone.

You carry it like a gift.

You carry it like a truth.

And you are not afraid.

Because you know.

You know that it will not go away.

You know that you will not be saved.

You know that you will not be fixed.

But you know that you can eat the toast.

You know that you can drink the milk.

You know that you can be held.

You know that you can survive.

That is enough.

That is all you need.

That is the pale tale.

It is not a happy tale.

It is not a sad tale.

It is a true tale.

And you are in it.

And you are alive.