The iron bit is in your mouth. It tastes of blood and cold rain. You are not a horse. You are a man. But the harness holds you down. You pull. The straps dig into your shoulders. They are thick. They are wet. You see the mud. You see the boots. They are brown leather. They are caked with earth. They are stepping over you.

Get up.

The voice is not yours. It is rough. It is old. It smells of pipe tobacco and fear. You try to speak. Your tongue is heavy. It is swollen. You spit. The mud takes it. You are in the trench. No. You are in the field. The sky is gray. It is low. It presses against the earth.

Thomas.

The name comes from the mud. It bubbles up. Thomas. Your name is Thomas. You remember the ring. It is on the table at home. Eleanor’s hand. The silver is dull. She is waiting. She is always waiting. She knows you are late. She knows you are lost.

The boots stop. They stand over you. There are three of them. They do not have faces. They have helmets. The metal is dented. It reflects the gray sky. You look up. You see only the sky in the metal. You are a mirror. You are the thing that reflects the void.

One boot kicks you. It hits your ribs. You hear a crack. It is not loud. It is a soft sound. Like a dry twig breaking. You do not cry out. You cannot. Your breath is gone. You are empty. You are a vessel.

Why?

The word is a stone in your throat. You swallow it. It hurts. You want to answer. You want to say I am here. I am Thomas. I love her. But the words do not come. They are stuck in the dark. They are locked in the bone.

The men move away. Their boots crunch on the wet grass. You hear them laugh. It is a dry laugh. It is like leaves skittering on the pavement. They are leaving you. They are leaving you in the rain.

You close your eyes. The darkness is warm. It is like a blanket. It is like Eleanor’s hair. You smell lavender. You smell soap. You are in the bedroom. The light is yellow. It is soft. It is safe.

Open your eyes.

The command is sharp. It is a whip. You open them. The sky is still gray. The rain is still falling. The boots are gone. You are alone. The harness is still on you. The iron is still in your mouth. You try to remove it. Your hands do not move. They are fused to the earth. They are roots. They are dead wood.

You are the ground. You are the thing that is stepped on. You are the base. You are the foundation. And it is breaking.

A shadow falls over you. It is long. It is thin. It is a figure. It walks toward you. It does not run. It walks. It is slow. It is deliberate. It is wearing a coat. It is black. It is wet. The water runs off it. It does not stick.

It stops. It looks down. It has a face. It is your face.

No.

It is not your face. It is older. It is harder. The eyes are dark. They are deep. They are wells. You have looked into them before. You have seen them in the mirror. You have seen them in the night. This is the man who will be. This is the man who has been.

He crouches down. His knees click. He is old. His bones are tired. He reaches out. His hand is shaking. His fingers are long. They are pale. They look like roots. He touches your cheek. His skin is cold. It is like stone.

Thomas.

His voice is the voice from before. The rough voice. The old voice. But it is also your voice. It is the voice you used when you were angry. It is the voice you used when you were tired. It is the voice you used when you were alone.

I am you, he says.

I know, you think. But you cannot speak. The iron is still there. It is biting you. It is bleeding you.

You are done, he says.

No.

The word is a gasp. It is a spark. It flies out of you. It hits the air. It vanishes.

You are not done. You are just tired. You are just broken. You can fix it. You can go home. You can see Eleanor. She is waiting. She is always waiting. She has the ring. She has the love. She has the life.

The man looks at you. His face is sad. It is full of grief. It is a heavy grief. It is a stone in his chest. He knows. He knows what you are thinking. He knows what you are feeling. He has felt it. He is wearing it. He is carrying it.

It does not work, he says.

What does not work?

The life. The home. The love. It is a trap. It is a cage. It is beautiful. It is bright. But it is a cage. And you are in it. And you are dying.

I don’t understand.

You will. You will understand. When you are old. When you are him. You will understand. The knowledge is a curse. It is a poison. It eats you from the inside. It rots the bone. It kills the soul.

Why?

Because you see it. You see the truth. And the truth is cold. The truth is empty. There is no one there. There is only you. There is only the void. And you are screaming into it. And it does not answer.

The man stands up. He looks at the sky. The rain is falling. It is washing everything. It is cleaning the world. It is making it new. It is making it dead.

He turns to leave. His coat flaps. It is a bird. It is a black bird. It flies away. He is gone. He is gone. He is never coming back.

You are alone. The harness is tight. It is crushing you. The iron is in your mouth. It is filling you. You are full of metal. You are full of cold. You are full of nothing.

You try to move. You try to pull the strap. It does not move. It is part of you. It is part of the earth. You are part of the earth. You are the ground. You are the base.

You close your eyes. The darkness is warm. The lavender is strong. You smell Eleanor. You hear her voice. She is calling your name. Thomas. Thomas. Come home. Come home.

You want to go. You want to run. You want to break the harness. You want to spit out the iron. You want to live. But you cannot. You are too heavy. You are too old. You are too dead.

The rain falls. It hits your face. It stings. It burns. It is cold. It is real. It is the only thing that is real.

You are the machine. You are the distant machine. You are the thing that works. You are the thing that breaks. You are the thing that stays.

The boots come back. They are closer. They are faster. They are angry. They are here. They are here.

Get up.

The voice is loud. It is a shout. It is a command. It is a law. You get up. You do not want to. But you do. Your legs move. Your arms swing. You stand. You are tall. You are strong. You are iron.

The men are there. They are waiting. They are watching. They have faces now. They are young. They are scared. They are like you. They are like him. They are like the man who left.

One of them holds a gun. It is black. It is shiny. It is cold. He points it at you. He does not shoot. He waits. He is waiting for you to move. He is waiting for you to speak.

You do not move. You do not speak. You stand. You are still. You are a statue. You are a stone. You are a mirror.

The man lowers the gun. He steps back. He looks at the others. They look at him. They are confused. They are afraid. They do not know what to do. They do not know who you are. They do not know what you are.

You look at them. You look at the man with the gun. You look into his eyes. They are dark. They are deep. They are wells. You see yourself in them. You see the fear. You see the hope. You see the lie.

You know the truth. The truth is that you are no one. The truth is that you are everything. The truth is that you are gone.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile. It is a kind smile. It is the smile of the man who knows. It is the smile of the man who is tired.

You take the iron from your mouth. You drop it. It clatters on the mud. It is a small sound. It is a final sound.

You step forward. You do not run. You walk. You walk toward them. You walk toward the gun. You walk toward the end.

The man with the gun raises it. His hand shakes. His face is white. He is crying. He is afraid. He is you.

I’m sorry, he says.

It is a whisper. It is a breath. It is a prayer.

You stop. You look at him. You do not speak. You do not move. You are still. You are the ground.

He pulls the trigger.

The sound is loud. It is a bang. It is a crack. It is a break. It is the end.

You do not fall. You do not move. You stand. You are still. You are the machine. You are the distant machine. You are the thing that stays.

The rain falls. It hits you. It runs down your face. It washes the blood. It washes the mud. It washes the truth.

You are gone. You are here. You are the void. You are the light. You are the love. You are the curse.

Eleanor is waiting. She is always waiting. She has the ring. She has the life. She has the truth.

She does not know. She will never know. The truth is yours. The pain is yours. The end is yours.

You are the ground. You are the base. You are the foundation. And it is holding.

The rain stops. The sky is clear. The stars are out. They are cold. They are bright. They are far away.

You are far away. You are here. You are gone.

The boots step over you. They are gone. They are never coming back.

You are alone. You are the machine. You are the distant machine. You are the end.

And it is enough.

It is enough.