Your hand is in the jar.

It is a glass jar. The glass is thick. It is cold. Your fingers are wrapped around the stem of a tulip. The flower is red. The water is clear. You are standing in the Hall of Records. The room is vast. The ceiling is high. The light is grey. You do not know how you got here. You do not know why you are holding the jar.

You look at your hand. The skin is pale. The nails are short. The veins are blue. The jar is heavy. It pulls at your wrist. You try to lift it. It does not move. It is fixed. It is part of you.

A door opens.

A man walks in. He wears a suit. The suit is black. The tie is grey. He holds a clipboard. His face is blank. His eyes are dry. He stops in front of you. He looks at the jar. He looks at your hand. He does not look at your face.

He makes a note.

He writes.

He writes again.

He tears the paper off.

He folds it.

He puts it in his pocket.

He walks away.

The door closes.

You are alone.

The jar is still there. The tulip is still red. The water is still clear. You try to shake your hand. The jar does not rattle. It is silent. It is heavy. It is cold.

You think of your mother.

She was in the garden. The garden was green. The leaves were broad. The soil was dark. She was digging. Her hands were in the dirt. She was looking for a root. A white root. It was deep. It was thick. She pulled. The root broke. She held the piece in her palm. It was wet. It was alive.

She gave it to you.

She said, hold this.

You held it.

It was warm.

It was soft.

It pulsed.

It beat.

It was your heart.

No. It was not your heart. It was a piece of her. It was a piece of the earth. It was a piece of the world.

You closed your hand.

The dirt stuck to your skin.

The smell was strong.

The smell was sweet.

The smell was bad.

You kept it.

You kept it for years.

It dried.

It shrank.

It cracked.

It fell apart.

You swept the pieces into the dustpan.

You threw it in the bin.

You forgot.

Now you are in the Hall of Records.

The jar is in your hand.

The tulip is red.

The water is clear.

The glass is thick.

The light is grey.

The man with the clipboard returns.

He is not alone.

There are others.

They are behind him.

They are silent.

They are still.

They are wearing white.

They are wearing masks.

The masks are smooth.

The masks are blank.

They surround you.

They hold tools.

The tools are metal.

The tools are cold.

The man with the clipboard raises his hand.

He points at your wrist.

He points at the jar.

He nods.

The man in white steps forward.

He holds a hammer.

The hammer is heavy.

The hammer is sharp.

He swings.

The glass breaks.

The shards fly.

They hit the floor.

They hit the wall.

They hit your face.

You do not flinch.

You do not scream.

You look at your hand.

The jar is gone.

The tulip is gone.

The water is gone.

Your hand is empty.

Your hand is red.

Your hand is bleeding.

The blood is dark.

The blood is thick.

The blood is warm.

The man in white steps back.

He looks at you.

He looks at his hammer.

He looks at the floor.

He nods.

The man with the clipboard makes another note.

He writes.

He tears the paper off.

He folds it.

He puts it in his pocket.

He walks away.

The others follow.

The door closes.

You are alone.

The light is grey.

The room is vast.

The ceiling is high.

You look at your hand.

The cut is deep.

The blood is flowing.

It drips.

It drops.

It hits the floor.

It soaks into the stone.

The stone is old.

The stone is hard.

The stone is cold.

You feel a pull.

It is in your arm.

It is in your shoulder.

It is in your neck.

It is in your head.

It is a tugging.

It is a tearing.

It is a breaking.

You feel the root.

You feel the white root.

It is in you.

It was always in you.

It is the thread.

It is the line.

It is the bond.

It is the curse.

You know now.

The knowledge is sharp.

The knowledge is cold.

The knowledge is heavy.

It sits in your chest.

It weighs on your ribs.

It presses on your lungs.

You cannot breathe.

You try to speak.

No sound comes.

You try to move.

Your legs are weak.

Your knees buckle.

You fall.

You hit the floor.

The impact is dull.

The pain is sharp.

You lie on your back.

You look at the ceiling.

The ceiling is high.

The light is grey.

The shadows are long.

The shadows are still.

You think of the garden.

The garden is gone.

The garden was never there.

The garden was a lie.

The root was a lie.

The love was a lie.

The bond was a lie.

It was a mechanism.

It was a gear.

It was a part.

You were a part.

She was a part.

The system is a machine.

The machine is running.

The machine is clean.

The machine is efficient.

The machine is perfect.

You are the defect.

You are the error.

You are the excess.

You must be removed.

You must be silenced.

You must be forgotten.

The blood is still flowing.

It pools under your head.

It spreads.

It darkens.

It cools.

The cold rises.

The cold is gentle.

The cold is kind.

The cold is final.

You feel the pull again.

It is stronger.

It is faster.

It is violent.

The root is snapping.

The thread is tearing.

The bond is breaking.

You feel a surge.

It is not pain.

It is power.

It is rage.

It is fire.

The fire is in your veins.

The fire is in your blood.

The fire is in your mind.

You sit up.

The blood is on your face.

The blood is on your hands.

The blood is on your clothes.

You look at your hands.

They are trembling.

They are shaking.

They are burning.

You feel the shape of the jar.

You feel the shape of the glass.

You feel the shape of the tulip.

You feel the shape of the water.

It is not gone.

It is inside you.

It is in your blood.

It is in your bones.

It is in your soul.

You stand.

Your legs are steady.

Your back is straight.

Your head is high.

You look at the door.

The door is closed.

The door is locked.

The door is sealed.

You walk to the door.

You push.

The door does not move.

You pull.

The door does not move.

You kick.

The door does not move.

You scream.

The sound is loud.

The sound is raw.

The sound is wild.

The sound is human.

The sound is alive.

The sound is free.

The sound breaks the glass.

The sound breaks the wall.

The sound breaks the light.

The sound breaks the silence.

The sound breaks the system.

The sound breaks the machine.

The sound breaks the lie.

The sound breaks the bond.

The sound breaks the curse.

The sound breaks you.

You are free.

You are broken.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are the root.

You are the earth.

You are the dirt.

You are the dust.

You are the ash.

You are the silence.

You are the void.

You are the end.

The light is gone.

The room is dark.

The ceiling is gone.

The floor is gone.

The walls are gone.

You are gone.

The machine is still.

The machine is quiet.

The machine is clean.

The machine is perfect.

The machine is alone.

The machine is waiting.

The machine is watching.

The machine is remembering.

The machine is forgetting.

The machine is dying.

The machine is dead.

The machine is born.

The machine is new.

The machine is you.

The machine is me.

The machine is us.

The machine is them.

The machine is it.

The machine is nothing.

The machine is everything.

The machine is the end.

The machine is the start.

The machine is the loop.

The machine is the cycle.

The machine is the eternal return.

The machine is the eternal silence.

The machine is the eternal void.

The machine is the eternal light.

The machine is the eternal dark.

The machine is the eternal grey.

The machine is the eternal cold.

The machine is the eternal heat.

The machine is the eternal pain.

The machine is the eternal joy.

The machine is the eternal love.

The machine is the eternal hate.

The machine is the eternal fear.

The machine is the eternal hope.

The machine is the eternal despair.

The machine is the eternal life.

The machine is the eternal death.

The machine is the eternal now.

The machine is the eternal then.

The machine is the eternal never.

The machine is the eternal always.

The machine is the eternal here.

The machine is the eternal there.

The machine is the eternal where.

The machine is the eternal when.

The machine is the eternal who.

The machine is the eternal why.

The machine is the eternal how.

The machine is the eternal what.

The machine is the eternal which.

The machine is the eternal wherefore.

The machine is the eternal whence.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.

The machine is the eternal whither.