The ink bleeds. It always bleeds.

I wake in the archive. The air tastes of iron and dust. My hands are stained black.

Look. Look at the fingers. The veins beneath the skin are dark lines. The capillaries have turned to ink. I am becoming the record. I am becoming the stain.

The room is vast. Industrial. Pipes run along the ceiling like the ribs of some dead leviathan. They pulse. A slow, rhythmic thrum. The machinery of the state. The engine of order. It hums a low, mechanical lullaby. It is beautiful. It is terrifying.

I stand. My legs are stiff. The chair is bolted to the floor. I am a clerk. I am a tool.

My name is Elias. I remember this. Or do I? The name feels heavy. A stone in my mouth. I spit. The saliva is black.

There is a desk. A single lamp burns. The light is yellow. Sickly. On the desk, a ledger. The pages are thick. Cream-colored. They wait for me.

I open the book. The ink flows from my fingertips. I write. I do not choose the words. The words choose me.

Entry One. Subject: Margaret. Status: Erased.

My breath catches. Margaret. My daughter.

She is gone. Not dead. Erased.

The system does not recognize her. She is a smudge. A mistake in the ledger of the living.

I write. The pen is not a pen. It is my hand. The nib is my bone.

Entry Two. Subject: Thomas. Status: Processed.

Thomas. My brother. He tried to leave. He tried to cross the border. The border is a wall of steam. It burns. It cleanses. It un-makes.

I write. The pain is sharp. A needle in the wrist. I keep writing. I must keep writing. If I stop, the ink dries. If the ink dries, I dissolve.

The door opens.

Footsteps. Heavy. Leather boots on concrete.

A figure enters. Tall. Thin. Wearing a grey coat. The face is blank. A mask of flesh. The eyes are voids.

This is the Auditor.

He does not speak. He does not need to. His presence is a weight. It presses on my chest. It crushes the air from my lungs.

He looks at me. He looks at the ledger. He looks at the black stain on my hand.

He nods.

A command. Silent. Absolute.

Write more.

I write.

Entry Three. Subject: The City. Status: Stable.

Lies. The city is rotting. The pipes are leaking. The steam is rising. The people are disappearing. One by one. They walk into the fog. They do not come back.

I write. The words taste of ash.

The Auditor watches. He is a mirror. I see myself in him. I see the hollowness. The emptiness. The way I have hollowed out my own soul to fill the pages.

I am a vessel. I am a pen. I am the ink.

The pressure builds. In my chest. In my throat. A scream rises. It is not a scream. It is a word. A forbidden word.

*No.*

The Auditor tilts his head. The machinery above groans. The pipes shudder. The light flickers.

He points at the ledger.

Write.

I hesitate. My hand trembles. The ink flows. It is thick. Viscous. It clings to the paper.

Entry Four. Subject: The Truth. Status: ?

The question mark. I write it. It looks like a wound.

The Auditor steps closer. The smell of ozone. The smell of burnt hair. He is close. I can see the texture of his skin. It is paper. He is made of paper.

We are all made of paper.

He touches my face. His finger is cold. Dry. He traces the line of my jaw. He traces the ink on my cheek.

He is reading me. He is checking the entries. He is verifying my existence.

If I am wrong, I am erased.

If I am right, I am erased.

There is no difference.

I look at my hands. The black is spreading. It has reached the elbows. The veins are clearly visible. Dark rivers.

I think of Margaret. I see her face. It is fading. Like a photograph left in the sun. The colors drain. The details blur.

I hold her in my mind. I grip her. I squeeze.

I will not let go.

I will not write her away.

The Auditor waits. The silence is loud. It roars. It screams.

I pick up the pen. It is my finger. I press it to the page.

Entry Five. Subject: Elias. Status: Free.

The words appear.

The Auditor does not move.

The machinery stops.

The silence is absolute.

The ink on the page does not dry. It spreads. It soaks through. It stains the desk. It stains the floor. It stains the air.

The Auditor’s face cracks. A fissure runs from eye to chin. Through the crack, I see fire.

He is not paper. He is ash.

He begins to crumble.

I watch. I do not feel joy. I do not feel fear. I feel nothing.

The ash falls. It piles up. A mountain of grey dust.

The room is empty.

The ledger is open. The pages are blank.

The ink on my hands begins to dry. It cracks. It flakes off. I am becoming clean. I am becoming white.

I am becoming nothing.

I look at the door. It is open. Beyond it, a corridor. Long. Dark.

I walk.

The floor is cold. The walls are lined with shelves. The shelves hold books. Thousands of them. Millions.

I run my hand along the spines. They are smooth. They are cold.

I see a book. The cover is black. No title.

I open it.

The pages are filled with my handwriting.

Entry One. Subject: Margaret. Status: Erased.

Entry Two. Subject: Thomas. Status: Processed.

Entry Three. Subject: The City. Status: Stable.

Entry Four. Subject: The Truth. Status: ?

Entry Five. Subject: Elias. Status: Free.

I close the book.

I walk on.

The corridor ends.

A door. Iron. Heavy.

I push it.

The door opens.

Light.

Blinding light.

White.

Pure white.

I step into it.

The light takes me.

It fills my eyes. It fills my ears. It fills my lungs.

I am dissolved.

I am written.

I am the ink.

The ink bleeds.

It always bleeds.

I am in the archive again.

The air tastes of iron and dust.

My hands are stained black.

Look. Look at the fingers.

The veins beneath the skin are dark lines.

The capillaries have turned to ink.

I am becoming the record.

I am becoming the stain.

The room is vast.

Industrial.

Pipes run along the ceiling.

They pulse.

A slow, rhythmic thrum.

The machinery of the state.

The engine of order.

It hums a low, mechanical lullaby.

It is beautiful.

It is terrifying.

I stand.

My legs are stiff.

The chair is bolted to the floor.

I am a clerk.

I am a tool.

My name is Elias.

I remember this.

Or do I?

The name feels heavy.

A stone in my mouth.

I spit.

The saliva is black.

There is a desk.

A single lamp burns.

The light is yellow.

Sickly.

On the desk, a ledger.

The pages are thick.

Cream-colored.

They wait for me.

I open the book.

The ink flows from my fingertips.

I write.

I do not choose the words.

The words choose me.

Entry One.

Subject: Margaret.

Status: Erased.

My breath catches.

Margaret.

My daughter.

She is gone.

Not dead.

Erased.

The system does not recognize her.

She is a smudge.

A mistake in the ledger of the living.

I write.

The pen is not a pen.

It is my hand.

The nib is my bone.

Entry Two.

Subject: Thomas.

Status: Processed.

Thomas.

My brother.

He tried to leave.

He tried to cross the border.

The border is a wall of steam.

It burns.

It cleanses.

It un-makes.

I write.

The pain is sharp.

A needle in the wrist.

I keep writing.

I must keep writing.

If I stop, the ink dries.

If the ink dries, I dissolve.

The door opens.

Footsteps.

Heavy.

Leather boots on concrete.

A figure enters.

Tall.

Thin.

Wearing a grey coat.

The face is blank.

A mask of flesh.

The eyes are voids.

This is the Auditor.

He does not speak.

He does not need to.

His presence is a weight.

It presses on my chest.

It crushes the air from my lungs.

He looks at me.

He looks at the ledger.

He looks at the black stain on my hand.

He nods.

A command.

Silent.

Absolute.

Write more.

I write.

Entry Three.

Subject: The City.

Status: Stable.

Lies.

The city is rotting.

The pipes are leaking.

The steam is rising.

The people are disappearing.

One by one.

They walk into the fog.

They do not come back.

I write.

The words taste of ash.

The Auditor watches.

He is a mirror.

I see myself in him.

I see the hollowness.

The emptiness.

The way I have hollowed out my own soul to fill the pages.

I am a vessel.

I am a pen.

I am the ink.

The pressure builds.

In my chest.

In my throat.

A scream rises.

It is not a scream.

It is a word.

A forbidden word.

*No.*

The Auditor tilts his head.

The machinery above groans.

The pipes shudder.

The light flickers.

He points at the ledger.

Write.

I hesitate.

My hand trembles.

The ink flows.

It is thick.

Viscous.

It clings to the paper.

Entry Four.

Subject: The Truth.

Status: ?

The question mark.

I write it.

It looks like a wound.

The Auditor steps closer.

The smell of ozone.

The smell of burnt hair.

He is close.

I can see the texture of his skin.

It is paper.

He is made of paper.

We are all made of paper.

He touches my face.

His finger is cold.

Dry.

He traces the line of my jaw.

He traces the ink on my cheek.

He is reading me.

He is checking the entries.

He is verifying my existence.

If I am wrong, I am erased.

If I am right, I am erased.

There is no difference.

I look at my hands.

The black is spreading.

It has reached the elbows.

The veins are clearly visible.

Dark rivers.

I think of Margaret.

I see her face.

It is fading.

Like a photograph left in the sun.

The colors drain.

The details blur.

I hold her in my mind.

I grip her.

I squeeze.

I will not let go.

I will not write her away.

The Auditor waits.

The silence is loud.

It roars.

It screams.

I pick up the pen.

It is my finger.

I press it to the page.

Entry Five.

Subject: Elias.

Status: Free.

The words appear.

The Auditor does not move.

The machinery stops.

The silence is absolute.

The ink on the page does not dry.

It spreads.

It soaks through.

It stains the desk.

It stains the floor.

It stains the air.

The Auditor’s face cracks.

A fissure runs from eye to chin.

Through the crack, I see fire.

He is not paper.

He is ash.

He begins to crumble.

I watch.

I do not feel joy.

I do not feel fear.

I feel nothing.

The ash falls.

It piles up.

A mountain of grey dust.

The room is empty.

The ledger is open.

The pages are blank.

The ink on my hands begins to dry.

It cracks.

It flakes off.

I am becoming clean.

I am becoming white.

I am becoming nothing.

I look at the door.

It is open.

Beyond it, a corridor.

Long.

Dark.

I walk.

The floor is cold.

The walls are lined with shelves.

The shelves hold books.

Thousands of them.

Millions.

I run my hand along the spines.

They are smooth.

They are cold.

I see a book.

The cover is black.

No title.

I open it.

The pages are filled with my handwriting.

Entry One.

Subject: Margaret.

Status: Erased.

Entry Two.

Subject: Thomas.

Status: Processed.

Entry Three.

Subject: The City.

Status: Stable.

Entry Four.

Subject: The Truth.

Status: ?

Entry Five.

Subject: Elias.

Status: Free.

I close the book.

I walk on.

The corridor ends.

A door.

Iron.

Heavy.

I push it.

The door opens.

Light.

Blinding light.

White.

Pure white.

I step into it.

The light takes me.

It fills my eyes.

It fills my ears.

It fills my lungs.

I am dissolved.

I am written.

I am the ink.

The ink bleeds.

It always bleeds.