You are standing in the break room, the fluorescent lights humming a low, electric drone that seems to vibrate in your teeth, and you are holding a paper cup of coffee that has gone cold, the surface of it still as a gray, stagnant pond. The smell is burnt and bitter, a sharp, acidic tang that clings to the back of your throat, and you are waiting, because you are always waiting, for the door to open, for the world to intrude upon this sterile, white-tiled silence. Your name is not important here, not anymore, because you are just the one who holds the cup, the one who stands in the corner with his back against the linoleum, listening to the hum. You are a soldier, or you were, or maybe you are still, because the uniform you wore was made of skin and bone, and it never came off, not really, not when you walked into this building with its high ceilings and its low voices, not when you sat across from the men in their gray suits who looked at you with eyes that had seen too much and felt too little.

"Is he in there?" you ask, and your voice is rough, scraped raw by the silence of the last three hours, and the woman at the counter, Margaret, who has been wiping the same spot on the counter for an hour, looks up at you with a face that is smooth and featureless, a mask of polite indifference. "He’s in the back," she says, and she does not look at your eyes, she looks at your hands, at the way your fingers are wrapped around the cup, tight enough to turn the knuckles white, and you can see that she is afraid, not of you, but of what you carry, the heavy, invisible weight that presses down on the air around you. "He said to tell you to wait," she says, and her voice is light, almost flippant, a thin layer of varnish over something deep and dark, and you nod, because you do not know what else to do, you do not have the words, the words have been taken from you, stolen away by the noise, by the pain, by the long, slow erosion of your own mind.

You walk to the back of the room, to the small, curtained area where the interviews take place, where the truth is supposed to be found, and you sit down in the plastic chair, the one that squeaks when you shift your weight, and you look at the door, the plain, white door that separates you from the man who is supposed to save you, the man who is supposed to tell you that you are not broken, that you are not the monster they think you are. You hear the click of the lock, the sound is small, insignificant, but it is loud in your ears, louder than the hum of the lights, louder than the traffic outside, and you know that it is time, it is finally time, and you feel a surge of hope, a fragile, dangerous thing, like a flame in a draft, and you know that it will go out, you know that it always goes out, but you let it burn, you let it burn because it is the only thing you have left.

The door opens, and he walks in, Thomas, or maybe it is Edward, you cannot remember, you cannot keep the names straight, they blur together, they are all the same, they are all the men who sit behind the desks, the men who ask the questions, the men who watch you with their cold, clinical eyes, and he is wearing a gray suit, the same gray as the walls, the same gray as the coffee, and he is smiling, a small, tight smile that does not reach his eyes, and he sits down across from you, and he puts his hands on the table, and he looks at you, and he says, "So," and the word is short, sharp, a blade in the dark, and you do not answer, you cannot answer, because you are still holding the cup, you are still holding the cold, bitter coffee, and you do not want to let go, you do not want to put it down, because if you put it down, you will have to face the empty space in your hands, the empty space in your life, and you are not ready, you are not ready for the void, you are not ready for the nothing.

"You’ve been here a while," he says, and his voice is soft, gentle, a lullaby for the dead, and you look at him, you look into his eyes, and you see the truth, you see the lie, you see the way he is looking at you, not as a person, but as a problem, a puzzle to be solved, a knot to be untied, and you feel a rage, a deep, cold rage that starts in your stomach and spreads out through your limbs, and you want to scream, you want to break the table, you want to throw the coffee in his face, but you do not, you sit there, you hold the cup, you wait, because you are a soldier, and soldiers do not throw things, soldiers do not scream, soldiers wait, soldiers endure, soldiers take the hit.

"Tell me about the night," he says, and the words are simple, direct, but they are a trap, a net, and you know that you are going to fall into it, you know that you are going to fall, but you do not care, you do not care because you are tired, you are so tired, you are tired of the waiting, you are tired of the questions, you are tired of the lies, and you open your mouth, and you speak, and the words come out, they come out like blood, they come out like water, they come out like the rain, and you tell him everything, you tell him about the noise, you tell him about the pain, you tell him about the way the world looked, the way it was sharp and bright and terrible, and you tell him about the boy, the boy who was not a boy, the boy who was a thing, a thing that needed to be stopped, a thing that needed to be silenced, and you tell him about the gun, you tell him about the sound, the sound that was not a sound, the sound that was a silence, a silence that swallowed everything, and you tell him about the after, the long, dark after, the after where the world is gray, where the people are ghosts, where the truth is a lie, and you look at him, you look at him as you speak, and you see the change in his face, you see the way his smile fades, you see the way his eyes widen, you see the way he leans back in his chair, and you know, you know that he is afraid, you know that he is afraid of you, you know that he is afraid of what you are, and you feel a sense of power, a dark, sweet power, and you want more, you want him to be afraid, you want him to hate you, you want him to know that you are not a victim, you are not a patient, you are a monster, you are the thing that he is looking for, you are the thing that he is afraid of.

"Stop," he says, and his voice is low, barely a whisper, and he is looking at you, he is looking at you with a fear that is real, a fear that is deep, and you stop, you stop talking, you look at him, you look at the cup in your hands, and you see the coffee, you see the way it is rippling, the way it is moving, and you realize, you realize that you are shaking, you realize that you have been shaking for a long time, you realize that you have been shaking since you walked in the door, and you feel a wave of nausea, a cold, heavy nausea that rises up in your throat, and you want to throw up, you want to run, you want to leave, but you cannot, you cannot leave, because you are here, because you are in the chair, because you are holding the cup, and you are holding the truth, and you are holding the lie, and you are holding the blood.

He stands up, he stands up slowly, carefully, like a man walking on ice, and he looks at you, and he says, "I can’t help you," and the words are simple, direct, but they are a blade, they are a blade that cuts through the air, through the silence, through the hum of the lights, and they cut through you, they cut through your heart, they cut through your soul, and you feel the pain, you feel the pain like a physical thing, like a weight, like a stone, and you do not cry, you do not scream, you do not move, you just sit there, you just hold the cup, you just look at him, and you see the truth, you see the truth that he is not a savior, he is not a friend, he is not a man, he is a wall, he is a barrier, he is the end, and you know that you are alone, you know that you have always been alone, you know that you will always be alone, and you know that you cannot go back, you know that you cannot return, you know that you are lost, you are lost in the dark, you are lost in the noise, you are lost in the silence.

He walks out of the room, he walks out of your life, he walks out of the world, and the door closes, the door closes with a soft, final click, and you are alone, you are alone in the room, you are alone in the chair, you are alone in the cup, and you look at the coffee, you look at the way it is still, the way it is gray, the way it is cold, and you think, you think about the boy, you think about the sound, you think about the silence, and you think about the way it will never end, you think about the way it will always be this way, gray, cold, silent, and you feel a sense of peace, a strange, terrible peace, a peace that is like a stone, a peace that is like a blade, a peace that is like a death, and you lift the cup, you lift the cup to your lips, and you drink, you drink the cold, bitter coffee, you drink the truth, you drink the lie, you drink the blood, and you swallow, and you swallow the pain, and you swallow the fear, and you swallow the end, and you sit there, you sit there in the silence, you sit there in the dark, you sit there in the gray, and you wait, you wait for the next cup, you wait for the next door, you wait for the next lie, and you do not move, you do not move, you do not move, because you are the soldier, you are the one who holds the cup, you are the one who holds the blade, you are the one who holds the truth, and you are the one who is alone, you are the one who is lost, you are the one who is dead, and you are the one who is alive, and you are the one who is waiting, and you are the one who is never going to stop.