You wake with the taste of copper in your mouth. It is thick. It is old. You are in the chair. The chair is wooden. It bites your spine. The room is white. The walls are white. The light is white. It hurts your eyes. You close them. You open them. The white remains.

A door opens. It creaks. A woman enters. She wears a gray dress. Her hair is pinned back tight. She holds a tray. On the tray is a bowl. The bowl is blue. It is chipped.

"Drink," she says.

Her voice is flat. It is dry. Like sand. You look at the bowl. The liquid inside is dark. It is brown. It is almost black. It smells of earth. It smells of rot. It smells of iron.

"I am not thirsty," you say.

Your voice is small. It shakes. You do not know why. You are afraid. The fear is cold. It sits in your stomach. It grows.

"You must," she says. She steps closer. She sets the tray on the table. The table is wood. It is bare. "The doctor ordered it."

"Which doctor?"

She does not answer. She looks at you. Her eyes are dark. They are deep. She does not blink.

"Drink," she repeats.

You look at the bowl. The liquid is still. It does not move. It does not ripple. It waits. You think of your mother. You think of her hands. You think of her kitchen. You think of the bread. You think of the soup. You think of the way she stirred. You think of the steam. You think of the warmth.

This is not warmth. This is cold. This is death.

"I will not drink it," you say.

The woman’s face changes. It hardens. She steps back. She picks up the tray. She walks to the door.

"Then you will starve," she says.

She leaves. The door slams. The sound echoes. It bounces off the white walls. It hurts your ears.

You are alone. The silence is loud. It presses against your skin. You look at the door. You look at the window. There is no window. There is only the wall. There is only the white.

You look at the chair. You look at your hands. They are thin. They are pale. The veins show. They are blue. They are weak. You are weak. You have been here for a long time. How long? You do not know. The days are the same. The hours are the same. The light is the same.

You remember. You remember the trial. You remember the judge. You remember the verdict. Guilty. The word is heavy. It sits on your chest. It crushes you. You remember the appeals. They were denied. One by one. Like stones dropped into a well. You heard the splash. You heard the silence after.

You are a criminal. That is what they say. That is what the papers say. That is what the world says.

But you know the truth. The truth is simple. The truth is hidden. The truth is in your mind. And your mind is broken. Or is it?

You look at the bowl on the table. It is still there. The liquid is still dark. It is still waiting.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. They do not want to move. You force them. You walk to the table. Your feet make a sound on the floor. Scrape. Scrape.

You stand before the bowl. You lean down. You smell it again. It is terrible. It is sweet. It is sour. It is foul.

You think of the medicine. The doctors gave you medicine before. Pills. White pills. They made you sleep. They made you forget. They made you docile. You did not take them. You hid them. You flushed them. You survived.

Now they give you this. This liquid. This death.

Why?

You look at the door. It is closed. It is locked. You can hear the lock. You can hear the turn of the key. Someone is there. Someone is watching.

You grab the bowl. The clay is cold. It burns your hands. The liquid sloshes. It hits the rim. It spills. A drop falls on the table. It darkens the wood.

You raise the bowl to your lips. You hesitate. The liquid touches your chin. It is warm. It is wet.

You think of your daughter. Her name is Elena. She is young. She is small. She has your eyes. She calls you Mama. She waits for you. She waits outside. She waits for the door to open. She waits for you to come home.

If you drink this, you will not come home. If you drink this, you will die. If you die, she will be alone. She will be lost. She will be afraid.

You lower the bowl. You do not drink. You set it down.

The door opens. The woman enters. She sees the bowl. She sees the spilled drop. Her face is calm. She is not angry. She is not surprised.

"You refused," she says.

"Yes," you say.

"Then we will try again tomorrow."

"Every day?"

"Until you accept."

"You are cruel," you say.

She looks at you. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is thin. It is sharp.

"I am just doing my job," she says.

She picks up the bowl. She pours the liquid into a sink. The liquid goes down. It swirls. It disappears. She rinses the bowl. She dries it. She puts it back on the tray.

"Sleep," she says.

She leaves. The door slams.

You sit in the chair. You close your eyes. The white light fades. The dark comes. You are in the dark. You are in the void.

You dream. You are in a field. The grass is green. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. You are running. You are fast. You are free.

You wake. The light is white. The chair is wooden. The bowl is on the table. It is full.

"Drink," the voice says. It is not the woman. It is a man. He stands in the doorway. He wears a white coat. He is tall. He is thin.

You look at him. You look at the bowl. You look at the door.

"I will not drink it," you say.

The man steps into the room. He walks to the table. He picks up the bowl. He brings it to your face.

"Open your mouth," he says.

You turn your head. You avoid him.

"Open your mouth," he says again. His voice is loud. It is harsh. It is a command.

You spit. You spit at him. The saliva hits his cheek. It hits his shirt.

He stares at you. He does not wipe it away. He looks at the saliva. He looks at you.

"You are difficult," he says.

"You are a monster," you say.

He sets the bowl down. He walks to the door. He stops. He turns back.

"Trust is a burden," he says. "You do not bear it. So you must be broken."

He leaves. The door slams.

You are alone. The silence is loud. The fear is cold. The taste of copper is in your mouth.

You look at the bowl. You look at the liquid. You look at your hands.

You realize something. You realize the truth. The truth is not in your mind. The truth is in the liquid. The liquid is not poison. The liquid is water. It is plain water. It is nothing.

They are testing you. They are watching you. They are waiting for you to break. They are waiting for you to drink. They are waiting for you to accept their authority. They are waiting for you to accept that you are guilty.

If you drink, you accept. If you refuse, you resist. But resistance is futile. They have the power. They have the time. They have the walls.

You look at the door. You look at the lock. You look at the floor.

You see a crack. It is small. It is in the floorboard. It is near the chair.

You look at the chair. The chair is wooden. It is old. The wood is dry. The wood is brittle.

You stand up. You pull the chair. You drag it. The wood scrapes against the floor. It is a loud sound. It is a sharp sound.

You pull the chair away from the wall. You pull it hard. You pull it with all your strength. Your muscles burn. Your breath is short.

The chair hits the floor. It breaks. The leg snaps. The wood splinters.

You pick up the splinter. It is long. It is sharp. It is jagged.

You look at the lock. You look at the keyhole. You insert the splinter. You turn it. It does not move.

You try again. You twist. You force. The splinter bends. It breaks.

You are on the floor. You are bleeding. Your hand is cut. The blood is red. It is bright.

You look at the door. You look at the wall. You look at the white.

You realize something else. The truth is not in the lock. The truth is in the trust. You trust them to be cruel. You trust them to be powerful. You trust them to be in control.

But they are not in control. They are afraid. They are afraid of you. They are afraid of your silence. They are afraid of your resistance.

They need you to drink. They need you to accept. They need you to be normal. They need you to be quiet.

You will not be quiet.

You stand up. You walk to the door. You kick it. You kick it hard. Your foot hurts. The wood dents.

"Open!" you shout.

The door does not open. The silence is loud. The fear is cold.

You kick it again. And again. And again.

The door opens. The woman enters. She is not alone. Two men are with her. They are big. They are strong.

"Stop," the woman says.

The men grab you. They hold your arms. They hold your legs. They lift you. You are in the air. You are struggling. You are screaming.

"You will drink," the woman says. "You will accept. You will be safe."

They carry you to the table. They force you into the chair. They hold your head. They force your mouth open.

They pour the liquid. It is dark. It is thick. It is cold.

It fills your mouth. It fills your throat. It goes down.

It tastes of earth. It tastes of rot. It tastes of iron.

It is not poison. It is not medicine. It is water. It is just water.

You swallow. You swallow. You swallow.

They let you go. They stand back. They watch you.

You sit in the chair. You are still. You are quiet. You are empty.

You look at the woman. You look at the men. You look at the white walls.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is thin. It is sharp.

You have won. They have lost. You have broken them. You have broken the trust. You have broken the system.

You are free. You are dead.

The light fades. The dark comes. You are in the void. You are in the silence. You are in the white.

You are alone. You are never alone. You are with the memory. You are with the truth. You are with the love.

The love is destructive. The love is consuming. The love is eternal.

You close your eyes. You open them. The white remains.