You dream of honey.

Thick. Golden. Sticky.

It coats your teeth.

It fills your mouth.

You swallow.

It burns.

You wake up gasping.

The ceiling is white.

Cracked.

Damp.

You are in the city.

Always in the city.

Rain hammers the window.

The glass is old.

It trembles.

You are not alone.

There is a man in the chair.

He is watching you.

His eyes are dark.

His coat is damp.

He does not speak.

He waits.

You know him.

You do not know his name.

You only know his gaze.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

You feel the taste of honey on your lips.

It is real.

You wipe your mouth.

The stain remains.

Gold.

Like a bruise.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

His voice is rough.

Like sand on stone.

"I dreamt," you say.

"You always dream," he says.

"No."

"Yes."

He leans forward.

The chair creaks.

"You are sick," he says.

"I am fine."

"You are lying."

He stands up.

He is tall.

He blocks the light.

The room becomes dark.

"I have to go," you say.

"Where?"

"Home."

"You have no home."

"I have a place."

"It is not a home."

"It is enough."

He smiles.

It is not a smile.

It is a crack.

"Let me show you," he says.

"What?"

"The truth."

"I don't want the truth."

"You want it."

"I want peace."

"Peace is a lie."

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The street is outside.

Wet.

Black.

Cars pass by.

Their lights streak across the wall.

Red.

White.

Blue.

They look like veins.

"Come," he says.

"I won't."

"You will."

He turns to you.

His face is still.

"Look at me," he says.

"I am looking."

"Look deeper."

"I can't."

"You can."

His eyes are black.

They are deep.

You look into them.

You see yourself.

But it is not your face.

It is a mask.

It is gold.

It is shiny.

It is cold.

"What is that?" you whisper.

"That is you," he says.

"That is not me."

"It is what you are."

"I am not a mask."

"You are hiding."

"I am alive."

"You are dying."

He steps closer.

The air changes.

It smells of metal.

It smells of rain.

It smells of honey.

"I am sorry," he says.

"Sorry for what?"

"For the ending."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

He touches your shoulder.

His hand is warm.

It burns.

You pull away.

"Stop it," you say.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because it is done."

"No."

"Yes."

He looks at the door.

He looks at you.

He looks at the window.

The rain is heavier now.

It drums on the glass.

Like a heartbeat.

Like a warning.

"You have to choose," he says.

"Choose what?"

"To see."

"I see."

"You do not."

He holds out his hand.

In his palm is a small jar.

It is glass.

It is full of honey.

It glows.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

"Take it," he says.

"No."

"Take it."

"I don't want it."

"If you don't take it, you will die."

"I am already dead."

"No."

"Yes."

He looks at you.

His face is soft.

It is sad.

"I am your friend," he says.

"You are a stranger."

"I am your shadow."

"I don't have a shadow."

"You do."

It is late.

The city is quiet.

The rain stops.

The silence is loud.

It presses against your ears.

It presses against your mind.

You look at the jar.

The honey is still.

It is waiting.

You think of your mother.

She used to make honey cakes.

She used to sing.

She used to laugh.

She is gone.

You are alone.

You are here.

You are sick.

You are afraid.

You look at the man.

He is waiting.

He does not move.

He does not blink.

He is part of the room.

He is part of the dark.

You reach out.

Your hand shakes.

Your fingers touch the glass.

It is cold.

It is smooth.

You take the jar.

It is heavy.

It is warm.

You feel the weight in your hand.

You feel the weight in your chest.

You open the jar.

The smell fills the room.

It is sweet.

It is cloying.

It is thick.

You dip your finger in.

You bring it to your mouth.

You taste it.

It is not honey.

It is blood.

It is iron.

It is pain.

You spit it out.

The stain on your lip turns black.

The man smiles.

This time, it is a real smile.

It is cruel.

"It is done," he says.

"What did I do?"

"You saw."

"I didn't see anything."

"You saw the truth."

"I don't know the truth."

"You know it now."

He stands up.

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The street is bright.

The sun is rising.

The rain has stopped.

The air is clear.

The city is waking up.

Cars start to move.

People start to walk.

The world is normal.

The world is alive.

You are not.

You look at the jar.

It is empty.

The glass is clear.

You drop it.

It shatters.

The pieces scatter.

They glint in the light.

They look like stars.

They look like teeth.

The man is gone.

The door is closed.

The room is empty.

You are alone.

You look in the mirror.

The mirror is on the wall.

It is old.

It is cracked.

You see your face.

Your face is pale.

Your lips are black.

Your eyes are dark.

You touch your lips.

They are sticky.

You taste the honey.

You taste the blood.

You taste the end.

You try to speak.

No sound comes out.

You try to move.

Your legs are heavy.

They are lead.

You fall to the floor.

The floor is cold.

The dust is dry.

You lie there.

You look at the ceiling.

The crack is longer now.

It goes across the whole room.

It looks like a vein.

It looks like a river.

It looks like a wound.

You remember the dream.

You remember the honey.

You remember the man.

You remember the choice.

You made the choice.

You opened the jar.

You tasted the truth.

The truth was bitter.

The truth was sweet.

The truth was death.

You wait.

You wait for the pain.

You wait for the end.

You wait for the light.

But nothing comes.

The silence remains.

The dark remains.

The honey remains.

It is inside you.

It is in your blood.

It is in your bones.

It is in your mind.

You are full.

You are heavy.

You are still.

The sun rises.

The light comes through the window.

It lands on your face.

It is warm.

It is gold.

It is beautiful.

It is cruel.

You close your eyes.

You dream of honey.

Thick.

Golden.

Sticky.

It coats your teeth.

It fills your mouth.

You swallow.

It burns.

You wake up.

The ceiling is white.

Cracked.

Damp.

You are in the city.

Always in the city.

Rain hammers the window.

The glass is old.

It trembles.

You are not alone.

There is a man in the chair.

He is watching you.

His eyes are dark.

His coat is damp.

He does not speak.

He waits.

You know him.

You do not know his name.

You only know his gaze.

It is heavy.

It is cold.

You feel the taste of honey on your lips.

It is real.

You wipe your mouth.

The stain remains.

Gold.

Like a bruise.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

His voice is rough.

Like sand on stone.

"I dreamt," you say.

"You always dream," he says.

"No."

"Yes."

He leans forward.

The chair creaks.

"You are sick," he says.

"I am fine."

"You are lying."

He stands up.

He is tall.

He blocks the light.

The room becomes dark.

"I have to go," you say.

"Where?"

"Home."

"You have no home."

"I have a place."

"It is not a home."

"It is enough."

He smiles.

It is not a smile.

It is a crack.

"Let me show you," he says.

"What?"

"The truth."

"I don't want the truth."

"You want it."

"I want peace."

"Peace is a lie."

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The street is outside.

Wet.

Black.

Cars pass by.

Their lights streak across the wall.

Red.

White.

Blue.

They look like veins.

"Come," he says.

"I won't."

"You will."

He turns to you.

His face is still.

"Look at me," he says.

"I am looking."

"Look deeper."

"I can't."

"You can."

His eyes are black.

They are deep.

You look into them.

You see yourself.

But it is not your face.

It is a mask.

It is gold.

It is shiny.

It is cold.

"What is that?" you whisper.

"That is you," he says.

"That is not me."

"It is what you are."

"I am not a mask."

"You are hiding."

"I am alive."

"You are dying."

He steps closer.

The air changes.

It smells of metal.

It smells of rain.

It smells of honey.

"I am sorry," he says.

"Sorry for what?"

"For the ending."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

He touches your shoulder.

His hand is warm.

It burns.

You pull away.

"Stop it," you say.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because it is done."

"No."

"Yes."

He looks at the door.

He looks at you.

He looks at the window.

The rain is heavier now.

It drums on the glass.

Like a heartbeat.

Like a warning.

"You have to choose," he says.

"Choose what?"

"To see."

"I see."

"You do not."

He holds out his hand.

In his palm is a small jar.

It is glass.

It is full of honey.

It glows.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

"Take it," he says.

"No."

"Take it."

"I don't want it."

"If you don't take it, you will die."

"I am already dead."

"No."

"Yes."

He looks at you.

His face is soft.

It is sad.

"I am your friend," he says.

"You are a stranger."

"I am your shadow."

"I don't have a shadow."

"You do."

It is late.

The city is quiet.

The rain stops.

The silence is loud.

It presses against your ears.

It presses against your mind.

You look at the jar.

The honey is still.

It is waiting.

You think of your mother.

She used to make honey cakes.

She used to sing.

She used to laugh.

She is gone.

You are alone.

You are here.

You are sick.

You are afraid.

You look at the man.

He is waiting.

He does not move.

He does not blink.

He is part of the room.

He is part of the dark.

You reach out.

Your hand shakes.

Your fingers touch the glass.

It is cold.

It is smooth.

You take the jar.

It is heavy.

It is warm.

You feel the weight in your hand.

You feel the weight in your chest.

You open the jar.

The smell fills the room.

It is sweet.

It is cloying.

It is thick.

You dip your finger in.

You bring it to your mouth.

You taste it.

It is not honey.

It is blood.

It is iron.

It is pain.

You spit it out.

The stain on your lip turns black.

The man smiles.

This time, it is a real smile.

It is cruel.

"It is done," he says.

"What did I do?"

"You saw."

"I didn't see anything."

"You saw the truth."

"I don't know the truth."

"You know it now."

He stands up.

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The street is bright.

The sun is rising.

The rain has stopped.

The air is clear.

The city is waking up.

Cars start to move.

People start to walk.

The world is normal.

The world is alive.

You are not.

You look at the jar.

It is empty.

The glass is clear.

You drop it.

It shatters.

The pieces scatter.

They glint in the light.

They look like stars.

They look like teeth.

The man is gone.

The door is closed.

The room is empty.

You are alone.

You look in the mirror.

The mirror is on the wall.

It is old.

It is cracked.

You see your face.

Your face is pale.

Your lips are black.

Your eyes are dark.

You touch your lips.

They are sticky.

You taste the honey.

You taste the blood.

You taste the end.

You try to speak.

No sound comes out.

You try to move.

Your legs are heavy.

They are lead.

You fall to the floor.

The floor is cold.

The dust is dry.

You lie there.

You look at the ceiling.

The crack is longer now.

It goes across the whole room.

It looks like a vein.

It looks like a river.

It looks like a wound.

You remember the dream.

You remember the honey.

You remember the man.

You remember the choice.

You made the choice.

You opened the jar.

You tasted the truth.

The truth was bitter.

The truth was sweet.

The truth was death.

You wait.

You wait for the pain.

You wait for the end.

You wait for the light.

But nothing comes.

The silence remains.

The dark remains.

The honey remains.

It is inside you.

It is in your blood.

It is in your bones.

It is in your mind.

You are full.

You are heavy.

You are still.

The sun rises.

The light comes through the window.

It lands on your face.

It is warm.

It is gold.

It is beautiful.

It is cruel.

You close your eyes.

You dream of honey.