The pill is white. It is round. It sits on the marble counter like a tiny, silent eye. I pick it up. It is cold. It is heavy for its size. I put it in my mouth. I do not swallow. I just hold it there.

"Margaret?"

The voice comes from the hallway. It is soft. It is polite. It is the voice of my husband, Arthur. He is wearing his robe. It is silk. It is blue. He looks tired. His eyes are red.

"Come out here, Margaret," he says. "We need to talk."

I swallow the pill. It dissolves. It tastes of chalk and dust. I walk out. The kitchen is bright. The sun is hitting the floor. It is a square of light. It is warm. I step into it. Arthur is standing by the door. He is holding a file. It is thick. It is brown.

"What is that?" I ask.

"Your file," he says. "From the clinic."

I laugh. It is a short sound. It is dry. "I am not in a clinic, Arthur."

"You are," he says. "You have been for six months."

I look at the file. I do not open it. I know what is inside. I know the diagnosis. I know the treatment. I know the schedule. I am not in a clinic. I am in my house. I am in my kitchen. I am making tea.

Arthur sighs. He puts the file on the counter. It lands with a thud. It is a heavy sound. It echoes.

"You need to take the rest of the day off," he says. "The doctor said so."

"The doctor is a stranger," I say.

"He is your husband," he says.

I look at him. I do not see him. I see the pills. They are in a bottle. The bottle is on the counter. It is half empty. I count the pills left. Twelve. One for each day.

"Who is the doctor?" I ask.

"Dr. Hale," Arthur says. "He is at the firm. He handles... special cases."

"Special cases," I repeat. The words feel strange. They feel slippery.

"Yes," Arthur says. "You have been under a lot of stress. The work. The house. It is too much."

I think about the work. I think about the files. I think about the numbers. I think about the money. It is not enough. It is never enough. We are not rich. We are comfortable. That is all. But comfort is a cage. It is a soft cage. You do not feel the bars until you try to leave.

"I am not stressed," I say. "I am fine."

Arthur shakes his head. He looks sad. He looks old. He is only forty. I am thirty-five. We are young. But we look old. We look tired.

"Take the pill," he says. He points to the bottle. "It will help you sleep."

I look at the bottle. The label is blank. There is no name. There is no dosage. There is just a symbol. A circle with a line through it. It looks like a prohibition. It looks like a stop sign.

"I don't want to sleep," I say. "I want to work."

"Work is the problem," Arthur says. "You need to stop."

I pick up the phone. I want to call my mother. I want to tell her. But I do not know her number. I do not know where she lives. I do not know her name. I do not know my own name. It feels distant. It feels like a word in a foreign language.

"Margaret," Arthur says. His voice is sharper. It is not polite anymore. It is cold. "Take the pill."

I take the pill. I swallow it. I watch the bottle. The level of the pills is dropping. It is a slow process. It is a constant process. It is the only thing that is real.

The next day is like the first day. The sun is in the same spot. The light is in the same place. The pills are on the counter. There are eleven left.

Arthur is not there. He is at work. The house is quiet. The silence is loud. It presses against my ears. It is a physical weight. I move through the rooms. I touch the walls. They are cool. They are smooth. They are solid.

I go to the study. The study is my office. There are papers everywhere. They are stacks of paper. They are mountains of paper. I open a drawer. I find a pen. I find a notebook. I write.

I write the date. I write the time. I write my name. I write it again. I write it until the letters blur.

I remember a feeling. It is a sharp feeling. It is a pain in my chest. It is a tightness. It is a fear. I do not know why I am afraid. I do not know what I am afraid of. I just know that it is there. It is always there.

I look at the window. The garden is outside. The grass is green. The flowers are red. They are bright. They are loud. I close the curtains. The light goes away. The dark comes in.

I go to the kitchen. I open the cabinet. I look for food. I find a loaf of bread. It is stale. It is hard. I break a piece. I eat it. It tastes of nothing. It is just texture. It is just chew.

I think about Dr. Hale. I have seen him. He is in the hallway. He is tall. He is thin. He has glasses. He looks at me with eyes that are empty. He does not blink. He never blinks.

"Dr. Hale," I say to the empty room. "Who are you?"

There is no answer. There is only the hum of the refrigerator. It is a low hum. It is a constant hum. It is the heartbeat of the house.

I go back to the study. I open the file on the desk. It is the file Arthur brought. I open it. I look at the pages. They are blank. They are all blank. There is no writing. There is no data. There is just white paper.

I turn the pages. One by one. They are all the same. White. Empty.

I feel a spike of anger. It is sudden. It is hot. It burns in my stomach. I throw the file on the floor. It flaps open. The pages rustle. It sounds like leaves. It sounds like dead things.

I sit on the floor. I hug my knees. I shake. I do not know why I am shaking. I do not know what is happening. I am in my house. I am in my life. I am safe.

But I am not safe.

I hear a sound. It is a key in the lock. It is the front door. I do not move. I stay on the floor. I am small. I am invisible.

The door opens. Light floods in. It is the sun. It is the same sun. It is the same light.

Arthur walks in. He is alone. He is holding the bottle. He is holding the pill.

"Did you take it?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say.

He walks over. He kneels down. He is close. I can smell his soap. It is lavender. It is sweet. It is cloying.

"It doesn't matter," he says. "You will take it. You have to."

"Why?" I ask. "Why do I have to?"

"Because you are losing it," he says. "You are losing your mind, Margaret."

I look at him. I do not see fear. I do not see anger. I see confusion. I see a man who is lost. He is just as lost as I am. He is just as trapped.

"Who is Dr. Hale?" I ask.

Arthur smiles. It is a sad smile. It is a tired smile.

"Dr. Hale is me," he says.

I stare at him. The words hang in the air. They are heavy. They are dense. They do not make sense.

"What?" I whisper.

"I am the doctor," Arthur says. "I am the husband. I am the keeper. I am the jailer."

He stands up. He holds the bottle out to me.

"Take it," he says.

I do not move. I look at the bottle. I look at the pills. There are ten left.

"I remember," I say.

Arthur’s face changes. The confusion goes away. The sadness goes away. It is replaced by something else. It is a blankness. It is a void.

"You do not remember," he says.

"I do," I say. "I remember the first pill. I remember the taste. I remember the dark. I remember the name."

"What name?" he asks.

"My name," I say.

Arthur takes the bottle. He puts it back on the counter. He walks away. He goes to the hallway. He disappears.

The house is silent again. The hum of the refrigerator is louder now. It is a drone. It is a buzz. It is a sound that gets into your bones.

I stand up. My legs are weak. They are shaky. I walk to the counter. I pick up the bottle. I shake it. It is empty.

There are no pills left.

I open the cabinet. I look inside. There are no other bottles. There are no other drugs. There is only food. There is only water.

I am free.

I am free and I am alone.

I walk to the window. I pull the curtains open. The sun is still there. It is still bright. It is still warm. But it feels different now. It feels harsh. It feels exposing.

I look at the garden. The grass is still green. The flowers are still red. But they look fake. They look painted. They look like a set.

I look at my hands. They are my hands. They are real. They are mine.

I think about the cycle. I think about the loop. I think about the beginning and the end. They are the same. They are always the same.

I go to the study. I pick up the pen. I pick up the notebook. I write.

I write: The pill is white.

I write: It is round.

I write: It sits on the marble counter like a tiny, silent eye.

I stop. I look at the words. They are correct. They are true.

I close the notebook. I put it in the drawer. I lock the drawer.

I go to the kitchen. I make tea. The water is hot. The steam rises. It curls in the air. It is white. It is round. It is silent.

I drink the tea. It is hot. It is bitter. It is real.

I wait.

I wait for the light to change.

I wait for the sun to set.

I wait for the dark to come.

I know it will come.

It always comes.