The mirror is lying.

It says you are young.

It says you are whole.

It says the man beside you is still your husband.

You laugh.

The sound is too loud.

It cracks the air.

The room shakes.

The steam pipes groan.

You are in the factory.

Or is it a dream?

The heat is thick.

It tastes like iron.

It tastes like old blood.

You look down.

Your hands are shaking.

You hold a small object.

A key?

A shard of glass?

It is warm.

It pulses.

It beats like a heart.

No.

It is a button.

A blue button.

From his coat.

You found it on the floor.

Yesterday.

Or last year.

Time is slippery here.

Time is a snake.

It coils around your throat.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

The noise stops.

The silence is heavy.

It presses against your eardrums.

You open your eyes.

He is there.

Thomas.

He stands by the window.

He does not turn.

His back is rigid.

The glass reflects him.

But the reflection is wrong.

The reflection is smiling.

Thomas is not smiling.

Thomas is frowning.

Thomas is leaving.

You know this.

You have always known this.

But you cannot say it.

Words are dangerous.

Words break things.

Words make the walls bleed.

You step forward.

The floor tilts.

The machinery below roars.

The gears grind.

Metal on metal.

Pain on pain.

“Thomas,” you say.

Your voice is small.

It is a mouse in a cave.

He does not move.

He does not breathe.

He is a statue.

He is a ghost.

He is a lie.

You walk around him.

The air is cold now.

The heat was a lie too.

You reach for his shoulder.

Your hand passes through.

Cold.

Empty.

Like grabbing smoke.

Like grabbing regret.

You scream.

The scream has no sound.

The mirror shatters.

Not into pieces.

Into dust.

White dust.

Like flour.

Like snow.

Like bone ash.

It falls on you.

You cough.

You choke.

You are alone.

There is no Thomas.

There is only you.

And the button.

And the room.

The room is shrinking.

The walls are closing in.

The floor is dissolving.

You are falling.

You fall into the dark.

You fall into the deep.

You fall into yourself.

***

You wake up.

The bed is soft.

The sheets are white.

The room is bright.

Sunlight streams in.

Dust motes dance.

You are in the house.

The real house.

The one with the garden.

The one with the dog.

The one where the neighbors know your name.

You sit up.

Your head hurts.

A sharp pain.

A spike in your skull.

You look at your hand.

You hold the blue button.

It is real.

It is cold.

It is dead.

You remember.

The party.

Last night.

The wine.

The laughter.

The argument.

The door.

The car.

The crash.

The silence.

You remember the police.

You remember the hospital.

You remember the body bag.

You remember the name.

Thomas.

Dead.

You are widowed.

You are alone.

You are free.

You are trapped.

You stand up.

Your legs are weak.

You sway.

You walk to the bathroom.

The mirror is whole.

It shows your face.

Your eyes are red.

Your lips are cracked.

You look old.

You look tired.

You look like a ghost.

You look like a liar.

You lean in.

You whisper.

“I did it.”

The mirror ripples.

The water in the sink sloshes.

The faucet drips.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Like a clock.

Like a heartbeat.

Like a countdown.

You turn off the light.

The dark is total.

You sit on the edge of the tub.

The cold porcelain bites your skin.

You think about the button.

Where did it come from?

Did you take it from the body?

Did you take it from the car?

Did you take it from his pocket?

Or did you sew it onto your own dress?

You do not know.

You cannot remember.

The mind is a thief.

It steals the truth.

It leaves you with fragments.

Shards.

Splinters.

You pick up the button again.

It is heavy.

It feels like a stone.

It feels like a seed.

You put it in your mouth.

You taste metal.

You taste salt.

You taste fear.

You swallow.

It slides down your throat.

A cold stone in your belly.

A weight in your stomach.

You feel full.

You feel sick.

You feel alive.

***

The phone rings.

It is early.

Too early.

The sun is barely up.

The birds are silent.

The wind is dead.

You ignore it.

It rings again.

And again.

And again.

It is persistent.

It is angry.

It is alive.

You pick it up.

You do not speak.

You listen.

The voice is not Thomas.

It is a woman.

Her voice is high.

Sharp.

Like a knife.

“Margaret,” she says.

You know the name.

Eleanor.

Thomas’s sister.

Thomas’s sister is in the phone.

Thomas is dead.

How can his sister call?

“Margaret, answer me,” Eleanor says.

Her voice is trembling.

“I need to see you.”

“I can’t,” you say.

Your voice is strange.

It is not your voice.

It is flat.

It is empty.

“Why not?” Eleanor asks.

“I am busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“With living.”

A pause.

A breath.

“You sound strange, Margaret.”

“I feel strange,” you say.

“You are grieving.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am.”

The line goes dead.

The dial tone is a hum.

A low, electric buzz.

It vibrates in your teeth.

You hang up.

The phone clicks.

The silence returns.

Heavier now.

Denser.

Thicker.

You walk to the window.

The garden is gray.

The roses are black.

The grass is brown.

The dog is gone.

The house is empty.

The house is full.

Full of you.

Full of the button in your gut.

Full of the lie in your throat.

***

You go to the kitchen.

The coffee maker gurgles.

The steam rises.

You make a cup.

You hold the mug.

The heat burns your palms.

You do not care.

You drink.

The coffee is bitter.

It is black.

It is void.

You think about the mirror.

The broken mirror.

The dust.

The fall.

Was it a dream?

Yes.

It was a dream.

Dreams are lies.

Lies are dreams.

But the button is real.

It is in you.

It is part of you.

It is your center.

Your core.

Your truth.

You look in the kitchen window.

Your reflection stares back.

But it is not you.

It is a stranger.

A woman with hollow eyes.

A woman with a blue stain on her lips.

A woman who knows.

Who knows what you did.

Who knows what you are.

She smiles.

You do not smile.

She nods.

You nod.

It is a signal.

A code.

A secret.

You are not Margaret.

You are the thing in the mirror.

You are the lie.

You are the ghost.

You are the button.

You are the weight.

You are the end.

***

The doorbell rings.

You do not move.

The bell rings again.

Loud.

Insistent.

Furious.

You walk to the door.

The wood is cold.

The handle is brass.

It is tarnished.

You look through the peephole.

It is Eleanor.

She stands in the garden.

She holds a bouquet.

White lilies.

Funeral flowers.

Death flowers.

She looks thin.

She looks pale.

She looks like a ghost.

You open the door.

The air rushes in.

It is cold.

It is fresh.

It is real.

Eleanor steps inside.

She does not hug you.

She does not cry.

She looks at your face.

Her eyes are sharp.

They cut you.

They see through you.

“You look well, Margaret,” she says.

Her voice is sweet.

Sweet like poison.

Sweet like rot.

“I feel well,” you say.

“Thomas said you were strong.”

“Thomas is gone.”

“Yes,” she says.

She walks to the table.

She sets the lilies down.

The flowers are heavy.

They droop.

They wilt.

They die.

“Did you find his coat?” she asks.

“I did.”

“Did you find the button?”

“Yes.”

Eleanor smiles.

It is a cold smile.

It is a sharp smile.

It is a knife.

“I wondered,” she says.

“What wondered?”

“Where it went.”

“It is here,” you say.

You touch your chest.

You touch the spot where the button is.

Eleanor’s eyes widen.

She looks at you.

Really looks.

She sees it.

She knows.

“You kept it,” she says.

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because it is mine.”

The room spins.

The floor tilts.

The walls breathe.

The air is thick.

The lilies rot.

The smell is sweet.

The smell is bad.

The smell is death.

Eleanor steps back.

Her face is pale.

Her lips are blue.

She looks at the button.

She looks at you.

She looks at the mirror.

The mirror is whole.

The mirror shows two women.

One is you.

One is her.

They are the same.

They are different.

They are one.

“You are not Margaret,” Eleanor says.

Her voice is loud.

It is a shout.

It is a scream.

“You are the lie,” she says.

“I am the truth,” you say.

“No,” she says.

“You are the mistake.”

The room shakes.

The floor cracks.

The ceiling falls.

The light goes out.

The dark comes.

The dark is warm.

The dark is soft.

The dark is home.

***

You are standing in the dark.

There is no room.

There is no house.

There is no garden.

There is no Eleanor.

There is no Thomas.

There is no mirror.

There is only you.

And the button.

The button is outside now.

It is in your hand.

It is cold.

It is dead.

You look at it.

You look at your hand.

You look at the dark.

The dark is watching.

The dark is waiting.

You raise your hand.

You hold the button.

You are going to throw it.

You are going to let it go.

You are going to be free.

You are going to be light.

You are going to be nothing.

You throw it.

The button flies.

It spins.

It glows.

It hits the dark.

It hits the void.

It hits the end.

There is no sound.

There is no splash.

There is no impact.

There is only silence.

You close your hand.

Your hand is empty.

Your heart is empty.

Your soul is empty.

You are empty.

You are full.

You are whole.

You are broken.

You are free.

You are bound.

You are here.

You are gone.

The dark lifts.

The light returns.

The room is there.

The bed is there.

The mirror is there.

You are there.

You sit on the bed.

You look at the mirror.

Your face is calm.

Your eyes are clear.

Your lips are still.

You are not Margaret.

You are not the ghost.

You are not the lie.

You are the space between.

You are the silence after the scream.

You are the peace after the war.

You are the stillness after the storm.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the truth.

The truth is simple.

The truth is quiet.

The truth is enough.

You close your eyes.

You breathe.

You live.

You die.

You are.