The iron gate groans. It sounds like a dying man clearing his throat. You stand before it. Your hands shake. You press them against the cold metal. The rust flakes off. It stains your skin. Red. Like blood. But it is just rust. You are a convict. Number 409. You have been here for ten years. The years are short. The seconds are long. You wait for the warden. His name is Silas. He is a man of few words. He is a man of many orders. He comes on a bicycle. The chain squeaks. He stops at the gate. He looks at you. His eyes are grey. Like the sky before a storm. He does not speak. He nods. You step inside.

The yard is grey. The walls are grey. The sky is grey. You walk. Your boots slap the ground. Slap. Slap. Slap. You walk to the cell. Cell 409. The door is steel. It is thick. It is cold. You enter. The air is stale. It smells of sweat. It smells of fear. You sit on the cot. The springs creak. You look at your hands. They are rough. They are red. The rust is still there. You try to wash it off. You scrub. You scrub. It will not go away.

You remember the field. It was green. It was tall. The grass touched your knees. You were young. You were free. You held a knife. It was a hunting knife. The blade was silver. It was sharp. It was beautiful. You cut the grass. One blade. Then another. Then another. The field was endless. The sky was blue. You felt light. You felt strong. You felt like a god. You cut more. You cut faster. The wind blew. The grass bent. It did not break. You smiled. You felt good. You felt clean.

Now the grass is gone. Now the field is gone. Now you are here. In the grey. You look at the wall. There is a crack. It runs down. Like a tear. You trace it with your finger. The stone is rough. It bites your skin. You do not care. You think of the knife. Where is it? It was taken. It was melted. It is gone. You are gone. You are only a number. 409.

Silas comes again. He is in the yard. He stands by the gate. He looks at you. He raises a hand. He points. He points to the fence. You walk to the fence. The wire is sharp. It cuts your arm. You do not flinch. You stand there. You wait. He comes closer. He walks through the yard. He walks to you. He stops. He looks at your arm. The blood seeps out. It is red. It is bright. He looks at you. He nods. He turns. He walks away. You watch him go. He is small. He is far. He is gone.

You go back to your cell. You sit. You look at the blood. It dries. It turns black. You feel a pain. It is deep. It is old. You think of the field. You think of the knife. You think of the cut. You cut the grass. You cut the earth. You cut the life. You did not mean to. You did not think. You just cut. The grass fell. The dirt turned over. The worms writhed. They were small. They were white. They died. You felt nothing. You felt empty.

The day passes. The sun sets. The light fades. The shadows grow. They are long. They are black. They touch your feet. They creep up your legs. They wrap around you. You are cold. You are afraid. You are alone. The dark comes. It is total. It is complete. You cannot see. You cannot hear. You can only feel. The cold. The fear. The dark. You close your eyes. It does not matter. The dark is inside you. It has always been there.

You sleep. You dream. You are in the field. The grass is high. The sky is blue. You hold the knife. It is heavy. It is cold. You cut. The grass falls. You cut. The dirt turns. You cut. The worms die. You stop. You look at the ground. It is flat. It is bare. It is dead. You look at your hands. They are red. They are covered in blood. You try to wash it. The water does not come. The blood does not leave. You scream. You wake.

The room is dark. The cot is hard. The air is stale. You are breathing. You are alive. You sit up. You look at the wall. The crack is there. It is still there. You touch it. It is cold. You think of the warden. Silas. He is a man. He is a beast. He is a god. He controls you. He owns you. He is the master. You are the slave. You are the prisoner. You are the sinner.

You remember the trial. The judge was tall. He wore black. He spoke slowly. His voice was low. He said the word. Guilty. The word was heavy. It fell on you. It crushed you. You did not speak. You did not cry. You felt nothing. You felt empty. The lawyer spoke. He said you were sick. He said you were mad. He said you could not help it. The judge listened. He looked at you. His eyes were cold. He did not believe. He saw a monster. He saw a killer. He saw a thief. He saw a liar. He saw nothing. He saw you.

You are not a monster. You are not a killer. You are not a thief. You are not a liar. You are a man. You are a man who cut grass. You are a man who held a knife. You are a man who felt the wind. You are a man who felt the light. You are a man who is here. In the grey. In the dark. In the cage.

The lights come on. The room is bright. The light is harsh. It burns your eyes. You squint. You look at the door. It is closed. It is locked. You wait. The minutes pass. The seconds tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. You count. You count to ten. You count to one hundred. You count to a thousand. You lose count. You forget. You stop. You breathe. You listen. You hear nothing. You hear everything. The hum of the wires. The drip of the water. The creak of the floor. The silence.

The door opens. Light floods in. Silas is there. He is small. He is grey. He looks at you. He nods. He steps aside. You walk out. Your legs are stiff. Your muscles ache. You walk. You walk down the hall. The hall is long. It is narrow. It is dark. The lights are dim. The shadows dance. You walk. You walk. You do not stop. You do not look back. You walk to the yard.

The yard is empty. The sky is grey. The gate is open. Silas is there. He stands by the gate. He holds a key. The key is small. It is silver. It shines. He looks at you. He does not speak. He extends his hand. You take the key. It is cold. It is heavy. It feels like a stone. It feels like a heart. You hold it. You look at it. You look at Silas. He smiles. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile. He steps back. He steps away. He walks to the gate. He opens it. The gate groans. The wind blows. The grass outside is green. It is tall. It is alive.

You look at the key. You look at the gate. You look at the grass. You feel a pull. It is strong. It is deep. It is in your chest. It is in your bones. You feel the wind. It is cool. It is fresh. It smells of rain. It smells of earth. It smells of life. You step forward. Your foot touches the grass. It is soft. It is wet. It is real. You step again. You step again. You are out. You are free.

You walk into the field. The grass touches your knees. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. You feel the light. You feel the wind. You feel the life. You look at your hands. They are red. The rust is still there. The blood is still there. It will not go away. You look at the key. It is in your hand. It is heavy. It is cold. You look at the ground. There is a patch of dirt. It is bare. It is dead. You kneel. You put the key down. You press it into the dirt. You push it down. You push it deep. You cover it with dirt. You pat the dirt. It is firm. It is real. You stand up. You look at the spot. The grass is growing. It is green. It is alive. You feel a weight lift. It is heavy. It is old. It is gone. You breathe. You take a deep breath. The air is sweet. The air is clean. You are empty. You are full. You are nothing. You are everything.

You walk away. You do not look back. You walk into the mist. The mist is thick. The mist is white. It wraps around you. It hides you. It hides the world. You are alone. You are free. You are gone. The grass grows. The key sinks. The dirt covers. The sun rises. The day begins. You are a ghost. You are a memory. You are a breath. You are a whisper. You are a shadow. You are a lie. You are the truth. You are the man who cut the grass. You are the man who held the knife. You are the man who was free. You are the man who is gone.