You hold the mirror. It is heavy. The glass is cold against your palm. You are in the car. The engine idles. A low, thrumming vibration. It moves through the chassis. It moves through your bones. The road stretches out. It is gray. It is endless. You have driven for hours. You have not stopped. The fuel gauge is red. The needle trembles.

The mirror is old. It is a hand mirror. The frame is gold. The gold is tarnished. It is dark. It is dull. You bought it in a shop in London. It was a gift. It was a mistake. You do not remember who gave it to you. You do not remember the name. You only remember the weight. You only remember the cost. It cost everything.

You look into it. Your face is there. It is pale. It is thin. The eyes are hollow. The lips are cracked. You are not you. You are a stranger. You are a ghost. You are a thing of shadow. You look away. You look at the road. The trees blur past. They are dark shapes. They are black fingers. They reach for the car. They do not touch. They only threaten.

You speak to the mirror. Your voice is dry. It is small. It is lost in the engine noise.

I am here, you say.

The mirror does not answer. It only reflects. It holds you. It keeps you. It is a prison. It is a cage. It is a heart.

You drive north. The sky is low. The clouds are thick. They are gray wool. They press against the windows. The wipers beat. They beat a rhythm. It is a funeral rhythm. It is a heartbeat. You count the miles. You count the minutes. You count your breaths. One. Two. Three. Stop.

You stop. You pull over. The gravel crunches. The car groans. The engine dies. Silence falls. It is absolute. It is heavy. It presses on your ears. You step out. The air is cold. It bites your face. It stings your eyes. You stand on the shoulder of the road. The field is empty. The grass is dead. It is brown. It is brittle. It snaps under your shoes.

You hold the mirror up. You look again. The face is still there. But something is different. The eyes are sharper. The mouth is tighter. It is a mask. It is a lie. You know it is a lie. You know it is a trap. You know you are trapped.

You speak again.

Let me go, you say.

The wind answers. It howls. It moans. It sings. It is a song of loss. It is a song of end. You shake your head. You deny it. You deny the wind. You deny the road. You deny the mirror. You are strong. You are the master. You are the king. You are the exile.

You get back in the car. You start the engine. It coughs. It sputters. It dies. You try again. It catches. It roars. It is loud. It is violent. You drive. You drive fast. The speedometer climbs. The numbers spin. You are flying. You are falling. You are free.

You are not free.

You reach a town. It is small. It is quiet. It is dead. The houses are dark. The windows are blank. The streetlights are on. They burn yellow. They burn sickly. You park. You walk. Your feet are numb. Your hands are cold. You walk to the general store. The door is open. The bell chimes. It is a clear note. It is a sharp note. It cuts the air.

A woman is there. She is behind the counter. She is old. Her hair is white. Her face is lined. She looks at you. She does not smile. She does not speak. She watches you. Her eyes are dark. They are deep. They are wells.

You hold up the mirror. You show it to her. You want to see. You want to know. You want a reflection that is true. You want a truth that is kind.

The woman looks at the mirror. She looks at you. She speaks. Her voice is soft. It is rough. It is like dry leaves.

You are looking for a face, she says.

Yes, you say.

There is no face, she says. There is only the eye. There is only the look.

What do you mean? you ask.

I mean, she says, that you are the mirror. You are the glass. You are the frame. You are the gold. You are the tarnish. You are the darkness. You are the light.

You do not understand. You do not want to understand. You want an answer. You want a name. You want a map. You want a way back.

There is no way back, she says. There is only the way forward. There is only the way in.

What is the way in? you ask.

You must break it, she says.

Break what? you ask.

The mirror, she says. The self. The image. The lie.

You laugh. It is a short sound. It is a bitter sound. It is a laugh of madness.

I will not, you say. I cannot. It is all I have. It is who I am. It is my history. It is my soul.

It is a cage, she says. It is a tomb. It is a grave. You are burying yourself. You are alive. You are still here. You are still breathing. You are still feeling. Let it go.

You look at her. You look at the mirror. You look at your own reflection. The face in the glass is watching you. It is judging you. It is mocking you. It is hating you. It is loving you. It is everything. It is nothing.

You feel a pain. It is in your chest. It is in your throat. It is in your hands. It is a sharp pain. It is a hot pain. It is a bright pain. It is a white pain. It is a golden pain.

You are the gold, you think. You are the frame. You are the holder. You are the keeper. You are the prisoner. You are the warden. You are the victim. You are the villain. You are the hero. You are the fool.

You are the exile.

You walk to the counter. You place the mirror on the wood. The wood is cold. The wood is rough. The mirror sits there. It is still. It is silent. It is waiting.

The woman watches. She does not move. She does not breathe. She is a statue. She is a stone. She is a ghost.

You pick it up. You hold it in both hands. You feel the weight. You feel the cold. You feel the gold. You feel the tarnish. You feel the darkness. You feel the light.

You close your eyes. You open your mouth. You scream. It is a silent scream. It is a shout of the soul. It is a cry of the heart. It is a wail of the spirit. It is a roar of the self.

You swing your arm. You bring the mirror down. You bring it down on the edge of the counter. You bring it down on the wood. You bring it down on the ground.

Crash.

The sound is loud. It is sharp. It is final. It is absolute.

The glass breaks. The gold breaks. The frame breaks. The pieces scatter. They fly. They dance. They twinkle. They are stars. They are snow. They are blood. They are light. They are dark.

You stand there. You are shaking. You are breathing. You are alive.

You look down. You look at the pieces. You look at the gold. You look at the tarnish. You look at the darkness. You look at the light.

You see your face. It is in the pieces. It is in the shards. It is in the fragments. It is broken. It is scattered. It is gone.

You are gone.

You are not gone.

You are here. You are now. You are free.

You pick up a shard. It is small. It is sharp. It is bright. It is gold. You hold it in your hand. You feel the edge. You feel the cold. You feel the light.

You walk out of the store. The night is dark. The stars are out. They are bright. They are cold. They are far. They are near. They are everywhere. They are nowhere.

You walk to the car. The car is there. The engine is off. The lights are on. The road is ahead. The road is behind. The road is all around.

You get in the car. You start the engine. It catches. It roars. It is loud. It is violent. It is alive.

You drive. You drive fast. You drive north. You drive south. You drive east. You drive west. You drive everywhere. You drive nowhere. You drive home.

You are home.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are dead.

You are born.

You are the gold. You are the tarnish. You are the darkness. You are the light. You are the mirror. You are the glass. You are the frame. You are the gold.

You are the exile.

You are the return.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the life.

You are the death.

You are the love.

You are the hate.

You are the self.

You are the other.

You are the one.

You are the many.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the stillness.

You are the motion.

You are the peace.

You are the war.

You are the rest.

You are the work.

You are the sleep.

You are the wake.

You are the dream.

You are the reality.

You are the illusion.

You are the fact.

You are the fiction.

You are the story.

You are the end of the story.

You are the beginning of the story.

You are the story.

You are the silence.