The pill was blue.

It sat on the table.

Margaret looked at it.

She did not move.

The room was white.

The light was flat.

She pressed her hand down.

The skin was cold.

She was alone.

She had been alone for days.

Or maybe hours.

Time was a loop.

She opened her mouth.

The air tasted of dust.

She swallowed.

The pill was a promise.

A promise to stop.

A promise to be free.

She closed her eyes.

The darkness was warm.

She heard a voice.

It was not a voice.

It was a hum.

It came from the walls.

The walls were breathing.

In.

Out.

Margaret sat up.

Her head spun.

The pill was gone.

She looked for it.

Under the chair.

In the sink.

In the drain.

Nowhere.

She was not in the room.

She was in the street.

The street was empty.

The buildings were tall.

They looked like teeth.

White and sharp.

Margaret walked.

Her shoes clicked.

Clack.

Clack.

She saw a man.

He stood by the curb.

He was wearing a suit.

Grey.

He looked at her.

He did not smile.

He did not frown.

He just looked.

“Margaret,” he said.

His voice was flat.

“Why are you here?”

She stopped.

Her heart beat fast.

Thump.

Thump.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Her voice was thin.

Like paper.

“I was sleeping,” she said.

“I took a pill.”

The man tilted his head.

“Which pill?”

“The blue one.”

He nodded.

Slowly.

“The blue one is for the pain,” he said.

“It is not for the sleep.”

Margaret felt a chill.

The air was cold.

“I don’t have pain,” she said.

“I have fear.”

The man stepped closer.

His shoes were black.

Shiny.

“Fear is pain,” he said.

“Fear is the worst kind.”

“Is it?” she asked.

“It is the only kind,” he said.

He reached into his pocket.

He pulled out a vial.

It was small.

Clear.

He held it up.

The light caught it.

It sparkled.

“Drink this,” he said.

Margaret looked at the vial.

It was not blue.

It was clear.

Like water.

Like tears.

“I don’t want to drink,” she said.

“You must,” he said.

His voice was hard.

Like stone.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you are sick,” he said.

“I am not sick,” she said.

“You are,” he said.

He held the vial out.

His hand was steady.

She looked at his face.

His eyes were empty.

Dark.

Deep.

She saw herself in them.

She saw the fear.

She saw the shame.

She took the vial.

Her fingers trembled.

She uncapped it.

She put it to her lips.

The taste was metallic.

Cold.

She drank.

It burned.

It spread.

She dropped the vial.

It shattered.

The man picked up the pieces.

He put them in his pocket.

“Good,” he said.

“Now you are clean.”

Margaret felt light.

The street was bright.

The buildings were soft.

The air was sweet.

She laughed.

It was a small laugh.

A dry laugh.

“Clean,” she said.

The man nodded.

“Clean,” he repeated.

He turned away.

He walked into the shadows.

Margaret stood still.

She looked at her hands.

They were red.

Stained.

Like rust.

She touched her face.

Her skin was hot.

She felt a pulse.

It was not her heart.

It was in her head.

It was a rhythm.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She looked around.

The street was gone.

The buildings were gone.

The man was gone.

She was in a field.

The grass was high.

It was green.

It was wet.

Dew.

She fell to her knees.

The grass soaked her jeans.

She looked up.

The sky was huge.

It was purple.

It was dark.

A star fell.

It was bright.

It burned.

It did not stop.

It kept falling.

It hit the ground.

There was a sound.

A crack.

Like bone.

Margaret stood up.

She ran.

She ran into the dark.

She ran for a long time.

She did not stop.

She ran until her lungs burned.

She ran until her legs failed.

She fell.

The grass was cold.

She looked at the star.

It was not a star.

It was a light.

A small light.

It was blue.

It was the pill.

It was glowing.

She crawled toward it.

Her hands bled.

The grass was red.

She reached out.

She touched the light.

It was warm.

It was soft.

It was alive.

It pulsed.

Like a heart.

She felt a pull.

It was strong.

It was deep.

She was drawn in.

She was pulled under.

The grass disappeared.

The sky disappeared.

The pain disappeared.

She was in a room.

It was white.

The light was flat.

She was on a bed.

She was alone.

She looked at the table.

The blue pill was there.

It was whole.

It was waiting.

She looked at her hand.

It was clean.

No blood.

No stain.

She looked at the door.

The door was open.

A man stood there.

He was wearing a suit.

Grey.

He was not the man from the street.

He was her husband.

David.

He stood in the doorway.

He did not move.

He did not speak.

He just looked.

His eyes were wet.

He was crying.

Silently.

Margaret looked at him.

She felt a pain.

A sharp pain.

In her chest.

It was a hole.

It was empty.

She remembered.

She remembered the fight.

She remembered the words.

She remembered the anger.

She remembered the fear.

She remembered the pill.

She had not taken it.

She had hidden it.

She had thrown it away.

But it was back.

It was always back.

David stepped inside.

His shoes were quiet.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

He did not touch her.

He looked at the pill.

He looked at her.

“Margaret,” he said.

His voice was broken.

“Why?”

She did not answer.

She looked at the wall.

The wall was breathing.

In.

Out.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I was tired,” she said.

“I was so tired.”

David nodded.

He understood.

He did not ask why.

He reached out.

He took the pill.

He held it in his palm.

He looked at it.

It was blue.

It was bright.

It was beautiful.

He closed his hand.

He squeezed.

The pill crumbled.

It turned to dust.

Blue dust.

It fell onto the sheets.

It looked like snow.

David opened his hand.

It was empty.

He looked at Margaret.

His eyes were clear.

He was not crying.

He was calm.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

He stopped.

He turned back.

“Stay,” he said.

His voice was soft.

“Stay here.”

He left.

The door closed.

The lock clicked.

Margaret was alone.

She looked at the dust.

The blue dust.

It was spreading.

It was covering the sheets.

It was covering the floor.

It was covering her.

She felt a lightness.

It was a freedom.

It was a release.

She lay down.

The dust was warm.

It was soft.

It was like a blanket.

She closed her eyes.

The darkness was not dark.

It was blue.

It was deep.

It was safe.

She breathed.

In.

Out.

The rhythm was steady.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She felt a presence.

It was not David.

It was not the man in the suit.

It was something else.

It was the room.

The room was alive.

It was watching.

It was judging.

It was punishing.

She felt a fear.

A deep fear.

She tried to move.

She could not.

She was heavy.

She was stuck.

The dust was rising.

It was filling the air.

She could not breathe.

She gasped.

The air was thick.

It was blue.

It tasted of iron.

She saw the stars.

They were falling.

One by one.

They hit the floor.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Each one was a memory.

Each one was a mistake.

Each one was a sin.

The first star hit.

She saw her face.

The second star hit.

She saw his face.

The third star hit.

She saw the pill.

The fourth star hit.

She saw the door.

The door was locked.

She was inside.

She was alone.

The dust was everywhere.

It was in her mouth.

It was in her nose.

It was in her eyes.

She tried to speak.

She could not.

Her throat was tight.

She felt a burning.

It was in her chest.

It was spreading.

It was winning.

She looked at the wall.

The wall was smiling.

It was a wide smile.

It was a cruel smile.

She understood.

The pill was not a cure.

The pill was a cage.

The room was a jail.

She was the prisoner.

David was the guard.

The dust was the wall.

She had built it.

Brick by brick.

Word by word.

Fear by fear.

She had locked herself in.

She had thrown away the key.

Now she was trapped.

In the blue.

In the dark.

In the silence.

She felt a tear.

It was hot.

It was salty.

It fell.

It hit the dust.

The dust dissolved.

A small hole appeared.

A small light.

It was white.

It was warm.

It was David.

He was outside.

He was knocking.

The sound was faint.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

She tried to reach for it.

Her arm was heavy.

Her fingers were stiff.

She could not move.

She was part of the dust.

She was part of the room.

She was part of the sin.

The knocking stopped.

The light faded.

The blue returned.

The dark returned.

The silence returned.

She was alone.

She had always been alone.

The pill was there.

It was whole.

It was waiting.

She looked at it.

It looked at her.

It was a mirror.

It was her soul.

It was blue.

It was cold.

It was eternal.

She closed her eyes.

The darkness was warm.

She breathed.

In.

Out.

The rhythm was steady.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

She was free.

She was trapped.

She was alive.

She was dead.

The blue pill sat on the table.

It did not move.

It did not change.

It was there.

It would always be there.

Waiting.

Watching.

Remembering.

Margaret lay in the dust.

She did not move.

She did not breathe.

She was still.

The room was still.

The world was still.

The blue dust settled.

It was quiet.

It was done.