The room smells of ozone and stale lavender. You sit at the edge of the bed. The sheets are white. Too white. They look like snow. Or bone. You do not sleep. You have not slept in days. The light from the window is gray. It does not change. It is always noon. It is always night. It is a fixed point. A trap.

You are a scholar of the old words. You spent your life decoding symbols. You thought you were smart. You thought you were safe. You were wrong. The safety was a lie. The safety was a cage. Now you are inside the cage. But the cage is soft. The cage is warm. The cage is made of air.

A knock comes at the door. It is soft. Polite. You do not move. You do not breathe. The knocking stops. A key turns. The door opens.

It is your father.

He looks young. He looks healthy. He is wearing a blue shirt. The shirt is clean. He smiles. His teeth are white.

"Hello, Elias," he says. His voice is gentle. It is the voice from the radio. The voice from the past. The voice that is not real.

You do not speak. You cannot. Your throat is tight. Your throat is full of glass.

He walks in. He carries a tray. On the tray is a bowl. The bowl is blue. It matches his shirt. Inside the bowl is a paste. It is pale. It is thick. It looks like clay. It looks like ash. It looks like skin.

"Eat," he says.

You look at the paste. You know what it is. You have known for years. You have refused it for years. It is the source. It is the key. It is the poison. It is the cure. You do not know which. You stopped knowing a long time ago.

"I am not hungry," you say. Your voice is small. It is a child’s voice.

"You must eat," he says. He sits on the bed. He sits close. He smells of soap. He smells of life. "It is for your strength. The world outside is hard. You need strength."

You look at him. You look into his eyes. His eyes are kind. His eyes are empty. You see the truth in them. You see the lie. You see the love. It is all the same thing.

"I am not weak," you say.

"You are tired," he says. "Let me help you."

He lifts the spoon. He holds it out to you. The spoon is silver. It catches the gray light. The paste trembles. It waits.

You remember the garden. You remember the time you were seven. He held a spoon. He fed you soup. You cried. He wiped your face. He said, "It will pass." He was right. It did pass. But it came back. It always comes back.

You look at the paste again. It is pale. It is the color of the sky. It is the color of your mother’s hair before the sickness took it. It is the color of forgetting.

Why do you refuse? Because you are afraid? No. You refuse because you are proud. You are a scholar. You understand the world. You do not need magic. You do not need help. You can survive. You can endure. You can hold the pain.

But the pain is heavy. It sits on your chest. It presses down. It makes it hard to breathe.

"Please," he says. The word is soft. It breaks your heart. "I am tired, Elias. I am so tired of watching you suffer."

You look at him. You see the lines on his face. They are new. They were not there when he left. They are deep. They are dark. He is aging. He is dying. He is here to save you. Or to kill you. You cannot tell the difference.

You take the spoon. Your hand shakes. Your fingers are cold. You bring it to your mouth.

The paste is cold. It is smooth. It tastes of nothing. It tastes of everything. It tastes of the sea. It tastes of the rain. It tastes of the years you lost.

You swallow.

It burns. It burns inside your chest. It spreads. It moves to your head. It moves to your hands. It moves to your feet.

The room changes.

The walls dissolve. The bed disappears. The light explodes. You are in the garden. You are seven years old. Your father is there. He is holding a red balloon. He is laughing. The sun is bright. The grass is green. You are happy. You are safe.

Then the garden turns to gray. The balloon pops. The grass withers. The sun dies. You are back in the room. You are on the bed. Your father is gone.

You are alone.

You feel lighter. You feel empty. You feel clean.

You do not remember why you were afraid. You do not remember who you were. You do not remember your name.

A knock comes at the door.

It is soft. Polite.

You open it.

It is a man in a white coat. He has a face you do not know. He has a tray. On the tray is a bowl. The bowl is blue. Inside the bowl is a paste. It is pale. It is thick.

"Hello," he says. "It is time to eat."

You look at him. You do not know him. You do not fear him. You feel calm. You feel obedient. You feel loved.

"Yes," you say.

You sit down. You take the spoon. You eat.

The taste is sweet. The taste is peace.

You do not remember your father. You do not remember the garden. You do not remember the pain. You only remember the hunger. And the feeding. And the love.

It is a good life. It is a simple life.

***

Weeks pass. Or days. Time is a loop. Time is a circle. You sit in the chair. You wait.

The door opens. A woman enters. She is young. She has red hair. She looks at you with pity.

"Hello, Elias," she says.

You do not know her. But you know the name. Elias. It is your name. You do not know why it feels heavy. You do not know why it feels wrong.

"How are you?" she asks.

"I am fine," you say. Your voice is smooth. Your voice is trained. "I am resting."

She smiles. It is a sad smile. She puts a hand on your shoulder. Her hand is warm. It is real.

"Your father is worried," she says.

You blink. Your father. The word brings nothing. It is a blank. A hole.

"Who is he?" you ask.

The woman looks at you. Her eyes widen. She looks afraid.

"Your father," she says. "The man who raised you. The man who loves you."

You shake your head. "I do not know him."

She pulls her hand away. She steps back. She looks at the door. She looks at you. She looks at the bowl on the table. The bowl is empty. The spoon is clean.

"Elias," she says. "Are you sure? Did you eat your medication?"

You look at the bowl. You look at the spoon. You do not remember. You do not remember anything. You only feel the calm. You only feel the peace.

"Yes," you say. "I ate."

She nods. She does not believe you. You can see it in her eyes. She sees the lie. You see the lie. But you do not care. The lie is softer. The lie is safer.

"Good," she says. "I will check on you later."

She leaves. The door closes. The lock clicks.

You are alone again.

The silence is loud. The silence is heavy.

You look at the wall. There is a crack in the wall. It is small. It is pale. It looks like a vein. It looks like a fracture.

You stare at it. You feel a pull. You feel a tug. Something is trying to come back. Something is trying to break through.

You remember a face. A man in a blue shirt. He was smiling. He was crying. He was holding a spoon.

You remember a taste. Ash. Clay. Skin.

You remember a name. Margaret. Your mother.

The memory is sharp. It is a blade. It cuts into the calm. It cuts into the peace.

You gasp. You clutch your chest. The pain returns. It is sharp. It is hot. It is real.

You look at the bowl. It is empty. You did not eat.

You did not eat.

You look at the door. You look at the lock. You look at the crack in the wall.

You understand.

You were not sick. You were not weak. You were not in a prison.

You were in a hospital. You were in a ward. The white coat men were nurses. The blue shirt man was a guard. The red hair woman was a doctor.

They were not saving you. They were keeping you. They were keeping you compliant. They were keeping you docile. They were keeping you silent.

The paste was not food. The paste was a drug. It was a suppressant. It was a lobotomy without a knife. It was a death of the self.

And your father.

Your father was not your father. He was a patient. He was a fellow prisoner. They used him to feed you. They used his love to break you. They used his presence to make the poison sweet.

You are not Elias. You are a subject. You are a number. You are a test.

You look at your hands. They are thin. They are weak. You have not moved in weeks.

You look at the crack in the wall. It is widening.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your knees shake. You walk to the door.

You knock.

No answer.

You knock again.

"It is time to eat," a voice says. It is loud. It is mechanical. It is not human.

You do not open the door. You turn back to the wall. You put your hand on the crack.

The plaster is loose. It crumbles under your fingers.

You dig. Your nails break. Your fingers bleed. The blood is red. It is bright. It is real.

You dig harder. You pull the plaster away.

Behind the wall is not brick. Behind the wall is glass.

It is a window. A high window. It looks out into a white void. There is no sky. There is no ground. There is only white.

You are in a box. You are in a lab. You are in a dream.

You look at the glass. You see your reflection.

You are young. You are old. You are both.

You see the truth.

You did not choose this. You were not defeated by nature. You were defeated by trust. You trusted the hand that held the spoon. You trusted the voice that said, "It will pass." You trusted the love that was a chain.

And now you are free.

You are free to be in pain. You are free to be afraid. You are free to be yourself.

You press your forehead against the glass. It is cold. It is hard.

You do not break it. You do not try to escape.

You sit on the floor. You pull your knees to your chest. You close your eyes.

You let the pain come.

You let the fear come.

You let the memory come.

You weep.

You weep for your father. You weep for your mother. You weep for the years you lost. You weep for the lie.

The tears are hot. The tears are real.

You are alone.

You are yourself.

The door opens. The light floods in.

You do not look up.

You do not eat.

You hold the pain.

You hold the truth.

It is heavy. It is beautiful. It is yours.