The bread is still warm, and you know it is because your fingers are burned, a small, sharp pain that blooms in the center of your palm like a dark flower, a reminder that you are still flesh, still bound to the physical world where hunger is a living thing with teeth. You sit on the cold stone floor of the refectory, the long table stretching out before you like a grey river of wood, empty of the plates that should be there, empty of the bodies that should be sitting, and you look at the loaf in your hands, a simple, round thing, unglazed, unadorned, smelling of yeast and the damp earth from which the wheat was pulled, and you think, I am the bread, I am the thing that is eaten, I am the fuel that burns so the institution can keep its wheels turning, and the thought is not a metaphor to you, it is a fact, a biological truth that sits in your stomach, heavy and cold, heavier than the stone floor beneath your knees. You are a prisoner here, not of the body, for you are free to walk the halls, but of the mind, for you have been told that you are broken, that your thoughts are dangerous, that your very existence is a threat to the order of the house, and so you have been placed in the lower ward, the place for those who must be fed but not seen, those who must work but not speak, and you have accepted this, you have accepted the defeat of your spirit, you have let it wither and die in the corner of your skull, because it is easier to be nothing than to be a monster, and so you eat the bread, tearing off small pieces, chewing slowly, tasting the salt and the grain and the faint bitterness of the oven’s heat, and you wait for the day to end, you wait for the bell to ring, you wait for the silence to come, and in the silence you hear the voices of the others, the murmurs of the monks, the prayers that rise like smoke from the incense burner, the soft thud of sandals on stone, and you think, they are afraid of me, they are afraid of what I know, they are afraid of the truth that I carry in my gut, and you wonder if they are right, if you are truly a danger, if your mind is a storm that will destroy the calm of the house, and you look at the bread again, and you see in its surface the cracks, the fissures, the places where the structure has failed, and you think, I am the crack in the wall, I am the weakness, I am the place where the light gets in, or perhaps where the rot gets in, and you do not know which it is, and you do not care, because you are tired, you are so tired, and you want to sleep, you want to stop thinking, you want to become the bread, to be broken, to be eaten, to be gone.

You walk to the kitchen, the long corridor with the vaulted ceiling, the arches painted with faded frescoes of saints and martyrs, the air thick with the smell of onions and grease and the damp stone, and you see Brother Thomas, the cook, standing by the stove, his back to you, his shoulders hunched, his hands moving over the fire, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, and you stand behind him, you watch him, you watch the steam rise, you watch the bubbles form and burst, and you see the way he moves, the way he is careful, the way he is precise, the way he is afraid, and you think, he is afraid of me, he is afraid of what I will do, he is afraid of the truth, and you step forward, and you say, Thomas, and he turns, and his face is pale, his eyes are wide, and he says, You should not be here, and you say, I am always here, and he looks at the pot, and he says, The bread is for the brothers, and you say, I am a brother, and he laughs, a dry, harsh sound, like a branch breaking, and he says, You are a prisoner, and you say, I am a man, and he looks at you, and he sees something in your face, something he does not like, something he does not understand, and he turns away, and he goes back to the pot, and he stirs, and he does not speak again, and you stand there, and you wait, and you watch the bread, and you see the way it rises, the way it expands, the way it takes up space, and you think, I am the bread, I am the thing that is rising, I am the thing that is taking up space, I am the thing that is going to break the mold, and you feel a surge of anger, a hot, bright thing, like the fire in the stove, like the heat in the oven, and you think, I will not be eaten, I will not be broken, I will not be gone, I will be the bread, I will be the thing that feeds them, I will be the thing that sustains them, and you realize that you are not angry at Thomas, you are angry at yourself, you are angry at your own weakness, you are angry at your own silence, you are angry at the way you have let them take you, and you think, I will speak, I will say the truth, I will say what I know, and you look at Thomas, and you say, I know what you did, and he stops, and he turns, and his face is a mask, a stone face, a face with no eyes, and he says, What do you know, and you say, I know you are not the cook, I know you are the prisoner, I know you are the one who is afraid, and he laughs again, and he says, You are crazy, and you say, I am the only one who is sane, and he looks at you, and he sees the truth in your eyes, and he knows that you are right, and he knows that he is wrong, and he knows that he is afraid, and he says, You will be punished, and you say, I am already punished, and he looks at the pot, and he says, The bread is for the brothers, and you say, I am a brother, and he turns away, and he goes back to the pot, and he stirs, and he does not speak again, and you stand there, and you wait, and you watch the bread, and you see the way it rises, the way it expands, the way it takes up space, and you think, I am the bread, I am the thing that is rising, I am the thing that is taking up space, I am the thing that is going to break the mold.

The doors open, and the brothers come in, a stream of grey robes, a river of silence, and they sit at the table, and they wait, and they look at you, and they do not look away, and they do not look at Thomas, and they look at the bread, and they wait, and Thomas brings the baskets, and he places them on the table, and he walks away, and he does not look back, and you sit, and you take a piece of bread, and you hold it in your hands, and you feel the warmth, and you feel the life, and you think, this is the truth, this is the thing that they are afraid of, this is the thing that I am, and you look at the brothers, and you see their faces, and you see their fear, and you see their hunger, and you see their need, and you think, I am the food, I am the thing that they need, I am the thing that they must eat, and you feel a sense of power, a cold, sharp thing, like a blade in the dark, and you think, I will give them the bread, I will give them the truth, I will give them the thing that they need, and you break the bread, and you pass it to the brother next to you, and he takes it, and he looks at you, and his eyes are wide, and his hands are shaking, and he does not eat, and he looks at you, and he looks at the bread, and he looks at Thomas, and he does not eat, and the brother next to him takes the bread, and he looks at you, and he looks at the bread, and he looks at Thomas, and he does not eat, and the brother next to him takes the bread, and he looks at you, and he looks at the bread, and he looks at Thomas, and he does not eat, and you watch them, and you watch the bread, and you watch the silence, and you think, they are afraid, they are afraid of the truth, they are afraid of the bread, they are afraid of me, and you feel a sense of loss, a deep, dark thing, like a hole in the ground, and you think, I have broken them, I have broken the trust, I have broken the peace, I have broken the bread, and you look at the loaf in your hands, and you see the cracks, and you see the fissures, and you see the places where the structure has failed, and you think, I am the crack in the wall, I am the weakness, I am the place where the light gets in, or perhaps where the rot gets in, and you do not know which it is, and you do not care, because you are tired, you are so tired, and you want to sleep, you want to stop thinking, you want to become the bread, to be broken, to be eaten, to be gone.

The bell rings, and the brothers leave, and the table is empty, and the floor is cold, and you sit, and you look at the bread, and you see the crumbs, and you see the dust, and you see the decay, and you think, this is the end, this is the thing that is left, this is the thing that is real, and you feel a sense of peace, a quiet, soft thing, like the snow falling, like the wind blowing, and you think, I have done my part, I have said my piece, I have broken the mold, I have broken the bread, and you feel a sense of release, a light, bright thing, like the sun rising, like the dawn breaking, and you think, I am free, I am the bread, I am the thing that is gone, and you close your eyes, and you wait, and you listen to the silence, and you hear the voices of the others, the murmurs of the monks, the prayers that rise like smoke from the incense burner, the soft thud of sandals on stone, and you think, they are afraid of me, they are afraid of what I know, they are afraid of the truth that I carry in my gut, and you wonder if they are right, if you are truly a danger, if your mind is a storm that will destroy the calm of the house, and you look at the bread again, and you see in its surface the cracks, the fissures, the places where the structure has failed, and you think, I am the crack in the wall, I am the weakness, I am the place where the light gets in, or perhaps where the rot gets in, and you do not know which it is, and you do not care, because you are tired, you are so tired, and you want to sleep, you want to stop thinking, you want to become the bread, to be broken, to be eaten, to be gone, and you open your eyes, and you see Thomas, and he is standing there, and he is holding the basket, and he is looking at you, and he is weeping, and you know, you know that he is not the cook, you know that he is the prisoner, you know that he is the one who is afraid, and you know that you are the one who is free, and you stand up, and you walk to him, and you take the basket, and you walk out, and you leave the house, and you leave the bread, and you leave the truth, and you leave the fear, and you walk into the night, and you walk into the cold, and you walk into the dark, and you walk into the silence, and you walk into the nothing, and you walk into the end, and you walk into the beginning, and you walk into the bread, and you walk into the thing that is broken, and you walk into the thing that is gone, and you walk into the thing that is real, and you walk into the thing that is true, and you walk into the thing that is you.