"You look thin, David."

"I am."

"Is it the work? Or the woman?"

"It’s the soup."

I laughed. It was a dry sound, like leaves skittering across pavement. I sat on the edge of the bed in my hotel room. The wallpaper was yellow. It was peeling at the corners. I picked a flake of paint. I held it in my palm. It was brittle. It was dead.

The man across from me smiled. He was a doctor. Or he said he was a doctor. He had soft hands. They were always clean. He wore a gray coat. It smelled of rain and old tobacco.

"The soup?" he asked.

"The soup," I repeated.

I had been drinking it for weeks. It was thick. It was brown. It tasted of iron. It tasted of dirt. It was the only thing I wanted. I ate it in small places. I ate it in alleyways. I ate it while I worked the night shift. I ate it in the break room. I ate it in the bathroom. I ate it until I couldn’t breathe.

"Who made it?" he asked.

"No one."

"Everyone makes soup."

"Not this one."

He leaned forward. His eyes were dark. They were deep. I could see my own reflection in them. I looked tired. I looked sick. I looked like a ghost.

"David," he said. "You are not well."

"I am fine."

"You are lying."

I stopped chewing. I swallowed. The soup was in my throat. It was heavy. It was cold.

"I don’t want to be helped," I said.

"I am not trying to help you."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I am watching."

I looked at my hands. They were stained. The brown stain was under my nails. It was under my skin. It was part of me. I tried to wash it off. I could not.

"Who is the woman?" he asked.

I flinched. I pulled my hand away.

"Who?"

"You mentioned her."

"I didn’t."

"You did."

I closed my eyes. I saw her face. She was standing in the kitchen. She was stirring the pot. The steam was rising. It was white. It was hot. She was smiling. She was looking at me. She was offering me a spoon.

"I don’t know her," I said.

"You know her."

"I know a woman."

"Is she dead?"

I opened my eyes. The doctor was watching me. He was still. He was quiet.

"She is alive," I said.

"Is she with you?"

"No."

"Where is she?"

"I don’t know."

"David."

"Leave me alone."

He stood up. He buttoned his coat. He looked at the door. He looked at me.

"I will be back," he said.

"Go away."

He did not go away. He sat back down. He crossed his legs. He waited.

The room was silent. The clock on the wall was ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was a slow sound. It was a heavy sound.

I looked at the soup in my bowl. It was cold. It was still. I picked up the spoon. I dipped it in. I lifted it to my mouth.

"David."

I ignored him.

"David."

I ignored him.

He reached out. He took the spoon from my hand. He put it on the table.

"Stop," he said.

"I am eating."

"You are poisoning yourself."

"It is food."

"It is not food."

"It is what I want."

"It is what is killing you."

I looked at him. I felt angry. I felt scared. I felt alone.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am the one who sees you."

"You don’t see me."

"I see the stain."

I looked at my hands. The stain was still there. It was darker now. It was spreading.

"Get out," I said.

He stood up. He walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was dark. The light from the corridor was yellow. It was the same color as the wallpaper.

"I will see you tomorrow," he said.

He left. The door closed. The latch clicked. It was a small sound. It was a final sound.

I was alone.

I went to the sink. I turned on the tap. The water was cold. I washed my hands. I scrubbed. I scrubbed until my skin was red. I scrubbed until it bled. The stain did not come off. It was under the skin. It was in the blood.

I looked in the mirror. I looked at my face. I did not recognize it. My eyes were hollow. My lips were gray. I looked like a stranger. I looked like a victim.

I thought of the woman. I thought of the soup. I thought of the taste. It was sweet. It was bitter. It was familiar.

I had made the soup.

I had made it for years. I had made it for the people I loved. I had made it for the people I hated. I had made it for the people I wanted to control. I had made it for the people I wanted to change.

I had fed them. I had watched them eat. I had watched them change. I had watched them fade.

I had done it to her.

I had done it to myself.

I sat on the edge of the bed. I felt the weight of my body. I felt the weight of my sin. It was heavy. It was real.

I did not want to be saved. I wanted to be finished.

The door opened. The doctor was back. He was holding a bowl. The bowl was white. The soup was brown.

"Eat," he said.

"I will not."

"Eat."

"I will not."

He sat down. He put the bowl in front of me. He picked up a spoon. He dipped it in. He held it out to me.

"It is for you," he said.

I looked at the spoon. I looked at the doctor. I looked at the soup.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am the part of you that is left," he said.

I stared at him. I did not understand. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be free.

"I don’t want it," I said.

"You want it."

"No."

"You do."

I looked at my hands. The stain was still there. It was part of me. I could not wash it off. I could not hide it.

I picked up the spoon. I took it from his hand. I dipped it in the soup. I lifted it to my mouth.

It was cold. It was thick. It was mine.

I ate it.

I ate it all.

I closed my eyes. I felt the soup in my stomach. It was warm. It was alive. It was me.

I opened my eyes. The doctor was gone. The room was empty. The bowl was empty.

I was alone.

I stood up. I walked to the window. The city was below. The lights were on. The cars were moving. The people were walking. They were eating. They were living.

I looked at my hands. The stain was gone.

My hands were clean.

I was clean.

I was free.

I walked out of the hotel. The air was cold. It was fresh. I breathed it in. It filled my lungs. It filled my heart.

I walked down the street. I walked into the crowd. I was one of them. I was no one. I was everyone.

I did not look back.

I did not think of the soup.

I did not think of the woman.

I did not think of the stain.

I just walked.

I walked until the sun came up.

I walked until the city woke up.

I walked until I forgot why I was walking.

I walked until I was nothing.

I was happy.

I was free.

I was gone.