You are bleeding.

Not much. Just a trickle. Red on the grey stone. You wipe it with your sleeve. The cloth is soaked. You keep going. The thing in front of you is not a man. It is a shape made of smoke and teeth. It screeches. You punch it. Your fist connects. There is no bone. There is only cold air. You punch it again. It dissolves. You feel the impact in your shoulder. It hurts. Good. Pain is real.

The ground shakes.

Another one comes. From the left. It is faster. You duck. Its claws scrape the rock. Sparks fly. You stand up. You kick it in the throat. It stumbles back. You grab its throat. It is slippery. It is warm. It smells like ozone and rot. You squeeze. It does not break. It does not stop. You scream. Your voice is a jagged thing. It tears the silence.

"Stop," you say.

It does not stop.

You are in the pit. The walls are high. They are wet. There are scratches on them. Thousands of them. You look down. There are bodies in the mud. Men. Women. Children. They are still. Their eyes are open. They are not moving. You look at your hands. They are shaking. You clench them.

"Who are you?" you ask the smoke.

It does not answer. It hits you. You fall. You taste blood. You taste dust. You get up. Your knee is wrong. It is bent. You stand on it. You walk. You do not run. You walk.

The light is wrong here. It is gold. But it is thick. It moves like honey. It pools in the corners. It sticks to your skin. You shake it off. It remains. You look at the sky. There is no sky. There is only more gold. It is endless. It is heavy. It presses down on you. You feel it in your chest. It is not light. It is weight.

"You are tired," a voice says.

It is small. It is dry. It comes from the corner.

You turn.

An old man sits there. He is small. He is thin. He wears a coat that is too big. It is brown. It is dirty. He holds a cup. He sips from it. He looks at you. He does not blink.

"I am not tired," you say.

"You are," he says.

He spits into the mud. "Look at them."

He points. You look. The bodies. The stillness. The mud.

"They are waiting," he says.

"For what?"

"For you to finish."

You do not understand. You look at the smoke. It is reforming. It is coming back. You raise your fists.

"Wait," the man says.

"Shut up."

"You cannot hit it. It is not there. It is in your head. Or maybe it is in the air. Does it matter?"

"It matters when it hits you."

The smoke hits you. You are thrown back. You hit the wall. The pain is sharp. You slide down. You sit. You breathe. Your ribs creak.

The man stands up. He walks over. He does not fear you. He does not fear the smoke. He walks to the edge of the mud. He stops.

"Your name is Thomas," he says.

You do not answer.

"Thomas Bradshaw," he says. "You were a soldier. You were a good man. You followed orders. You did what you were told."

"I am a soldier," you say. Your voice is rough. "I am here. I am fighting."

"You are not fighting," he says. "You are dying. Slowly. In the gold."

"What is this place?"

"It is the end," he says. "It is the beginning. It is the middle. It is all at once. Do you remember the field? The rain? The sound of the guns?"

You remember. You do not want to. The memory is hot. It burns.

"Remember the boy," he says.

The boy.

You remember the boy. He was young. He was holding a flag. He was smiling. He was not afraid. You saw him. You had a gun. You had a target. The target was him. Or maybe it was the flag. It did not matter. You pulled the trigger.

The smoke screams. It is the boy’s voice. It is your voice. It is the voice of the gun.

You stand up. You go to the smoke. You fight it. You punch it. You kick it. You bite it. You tear at it with your nails. It does not break. It gets stronger. It wraps around you. It is cold. It is tight.

"Let go," the man says.

He is standing still. He is watching.

"I will not let go," you say.

"Then you stay," he says. "Forever. In the gold. In the mud. With them."

He points to the bodies. You look. They are moving. Their heads turn. Their eyes open. They look at you. They do not speak. They do not need to. Their eyes are full. They are full of gold.

You look at your hands. The gold is on them. It is under your skin. You try to wash it off. You rub your arms. It does not come off. It is part of you.

"Help me," you say.

The man shakes his head. "No one can help you. You are the enemy. You are the weapon. You are the wound."

"I am a soldier," you say. "I follow orders."

"Your order was to live," he says. "You failed. Now you must pay."

The smoke tightens. You cannot breathe. You gasp. You choke. The gold is in your throat. It is thick. It is sweet. It is bad.

"Who are you?" you ask.

"I am the witness," he says. "I watch. I do not judge. I only watch."

"I don't want to watch," you say. "I want to fight."

"You cannot fight what is inside you," he says. "You can only release it."

The smoke is inside you. You feel it. It is in your blood. It is in your heart. It is beating. It is fast. It is loud.

You look at the man. You look at the bodies. You look at the gold.

You stop.

You stop moving. You stop fighting. You stop punching. You stop screaming.

You stand still.

The smoke stops. It hangs in the air. It is still. It is waiting.

The man watches. His eyes are wet. He does not move.

You close your eyes.

You feel the gold. It is heavy. It is warm. It is a burden. It is a love. It is a hate. It is all of it.

You open your mouth.

You do not scream. You do not shout.

You breathe out.

It is a long breath. It is a deep breath. It comes from the bottom of your lungs. It comes from the bottom of your soul.

You breathe out the gold.

It leaves you. It streams from your mouth. It is a river. It is a flood. It is bright. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

It flows over the mud. It flows over the bodies. It flows over the man.

The man falls to his knees. He covers his face. He weeps.

The bodies move. They stand up. They are not dead. They are waking. They look at you. They do not fear you. They smile.

The smoke is gone.

The air is clear. The gold is gone. The light is white. It is soft. It is clean.

You are on your knees. You are empty. You are light. You are nothing.

The man stands up. He walks to you. He touches your face. His hand is warm.

"Thank you," he says.

You do not speak. You cannot. Your voice is gone.

He takes your hand. He leads you to the center of the pit.

There is a door. It was not there before. It is small. It is made of wood. It is old. It is broken.

He pushes it open.

It opens onto nothing. It opens onto light. It opens onto life.

You look at the door. You look at the man.

He nods.

You walk toward the door.

You walk through it.

The light takes you.

It is warm.

It is quiet.

It is over.

You are free.

But you are gone.

The man stands alone in the pit. The mud is dry. The bodies are gone. The gold is gone.

He looks at the empty space where you were.

He picks up his cup. He sips.

It is empty.

He looks at the door. It is closed.

He waits.

He waits for the next one.

He waits for the next soldier.

He waits for the next mistake.

He waits for the next sacrifice.

He is patient.

He is old.

He is the witness.

The story is not over. It is just beginning. For the next one. For the next Thomas. For the next man who fights and cannot win.

The gold is always there. Waiting.

It is patient.

It is hungry.

It is love.

It is death.

It is the same thing.

You were right. You were wrong. You were both.

You were the monster. You were the hero.

You were the sacrifice.

And it was enough.

It was always enough.

The man smiles.

He is tired.

He is happy.

He is waiting.