The glass is in your hands. It is a thick, industrial pane, the kind used for the windows of the old textile mills in Lowell. The edges are raw. They catch the light from the single, buzzing fluorescent tube above. You hold it up to the eye of the man in the grey suit. He does not look at the glass. He looks at your hands. Specifically, he looks at the blood.

It is red. It is warm. It is not your blood.

You tell him this. Your voice is steady. You have practiced steadiness. It is a skill, like splicing wire or calibrating a pressure valve. You learned it in the basement of the factory, where the air smelled of ozone and rust.

"It is not mine," you say. "I was holding it. It was on the floor. I picked it up."

The man in the grey suit nods. He does not believe you. You know this because he does not blink. His eyes are flat, like stones in a riverbed. He is a man who has heard every excuse. He has filed every lie into a drawer labeled *Standard Deviation*. He writes something down in a small notebook. The pen scratches against the paper. The sound is loud in the small, windowless room.

The room is white. The walls are white. The floor is white tile. There is no door you can see. There is only the table. The table is metal. Your wrists are bound to the table with plastic cuffs. They are tight. They cut into the skin. You do not pull at them. Pulling is useless. Pulling makes the cuffs tighter. You learned this the first time they brought you here.

You think of the glass. It is not just a piece of glass. It is a mirror. A fragment of a mirror. You remember the moment it broke. It was a Tuesday. The rain was falling outside the factory. The rain hit the windows and made a sound like static. You were cleaning the windows. You were the only one left. The others had gone home. The shift was over. The machines had stopped. The silence was heavy.

You held the cloth. You wiped the glass. And then you saw it.

It was not your reflection. It was not your face. It was a face you knew. It was the face of your brother. He was standing behind you. He was smiling. He was holding a hammer.

You dropped the cloth. You dropped the glass. The glass shattered.

The man in the grey suit taps the table. "Do you remember the time?"

You do not answer. You look at your hands. The blood is drying. It turns brown. It looks like dirt. You think about the blood. Whose blood is it? You try to remember. You try to find the memory of the impact. You try to find the sound of the hammer hitting the glass. You cannot find it. The memory is gone. It has been scrubbed away, like dirt from a floor.

This is the first turn. You realize you do not remember the violence. You only remember the face. And the face is not real. You are alone. You have always been alone. The man in the grey suit is not there. The room is not there. The blood is not there.

But you cannot say this. If you say this, they will say you are broken. If you are broken, they will put you in the place with the padded walls. You do not want the padded walls. You want the glass. You want to see.

The man in the grey suit stands up. He moves to the corner of the room. He picks up a phone. He dials a number. He speaks. You cannot hear what he says. You only see his mouth move. It moves slowly. It moves deliberately. He hangs up the phone. He turns back to you.

"We have a witness," he says.

A witness. There is no witness. There is no one in the factory. There is no one in the building. There is no one in the city. You know this. You have checked. You have counted the windows. You have checked the locks. You have listened to the wind. There is no one.

But the man says there is a witness. He says the witness saw you. He says the witness saw you with the glass. He says the witness saw the blood.

You feel a coldness in your chest. It is not fear. It is something else. It is a recognition. You know this witness. You have met this witness. You have spoken to this witness. You have argued with this witness.

The witness is you.

This is the second turn. The self splits. The self looks at the self. The self accuses the self. The self defends the self. It is a loop. It is a circuit. It is a machine that runs without fuel. It runs on the memory of the face.

You think of your brother. His name is Thomas. He is in the hospital. He has been in the hospital for three months. He has been in a coma. They say he will not wake up. They say his brain is damaged. They say he will never speak again.

You visit him every day. You sit by his bed. You hold his hand. You talk to him. You tell him about the factory. You tell him about the windows. You tell him about the rain. You tell him about the glass.

But you never tell him about the hammer. You never tell him about the face. You cannot tell him. If you tell him, he will know. If he knows, he will wake up. If he wakes up, he will see you. And he will see what you did.

You did not do it. You must not have done it. If you did it, you are a monster. If you are a monster, you are not your sister. You are not the one who holds his hand. You are not the one who prays for him. You are not the one who loves him.

Love is a lock. It is a key. It is a door. You have locked yourself in the room with the glass. You have locked yourself in the room with the blood. You have locked yourself in the room with the lie.

The man in the grey suit sits down again. He opens his notebook. He looks at you.

"Will you confess?" he asks.

You shake your head. No. You will not confess. You are innocent. You are the victim. You are the one who was attacked. You are the one who survived. You are the one who is here.

The man closes his notebook. He stands up. He leaves the room. The door does not open. The door is a wall. The door is a mirror. You see your face in the wall. Your face is pale. Your face is thin. Your eyes are dark. You look like a ghost.

This is the third turn. The room changes. The white walls turn grey. The grey walls turn black. The black walls turn into glass. You are inside the glass. You are inside the mirror. You are inside the shard.

You try to break out. You push against the glass. Your hands press against the surface. It is cold. It is hard. It does not move. You scream. You scream inside the glass. The sound is muffled. The sound is trapped.

You think of the factory. You think of the machines. The machines are running. The machines are loud. The machines are hungry. They eat the glass. They eat the light. They eat the time. You are a gear in the machine. You are a piece of the machine. You are the glass in the machine.

The glass is not a weapon. The glass is a tool. It is used to see. It is used to reflect. It is used to separate. It separates the inside from the outside. It separates the self from the other. It separates the truth from the lie.

You are on the inside. The truth is on the outside. You cannot reach it. You cannot see it. You only see the reflection. And the reflection is lying.

This is the fourth turn. You accept the lie. You accept the glass. You accept the blood. You accept the room. You accept the man in the grey suit. You accept the witness. You accept yourself.

You stop pushing against the glass. You sit down. You sit on the floor. The floor is cold. You curl your legs under you. You wrap your arms around your knees. You close your eyes.

You remember your mother. She died when you were young. She died in the factory. She died in the boiler room. The steam killed her. The steam took her voice. The steam took her breath. The steam took her life.

You remember your father. He left. He left before the factory closed. He left before the machines stopped. He left before the rain started. He did not look back. He did not look at you. He did not look at Thomas. He did not look at the glass.

You are the last one. You are the last one in the family. You are the last one in the factory. You are the last one in the room.

The man in the grey suit returns. He holds a tray. The tray has a cup. The cup is white. The cup is porcelain. It is fragile. It is beautiful.

He places the cup in front of you.

"Drink," he says.

You look at the cup. The cup is empty. There is no water. There is no poison. There is no coffee. There is nothing.

You look at the man. He is smiling. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile.

"Drink," he says again.

You pick up the cup. You hold it in your hands. It is warm. It is light. It is empty.

You bring it to your lips. You do not drink. You hold it. You feel the weight of it. You feel the fragility of it. You know that if you drop it, it will break. You know that if it breaks, the end will come.

This is the fifth turn. The breaking.

You do not drop the cup. You do not break it. You place it back on the tray.

"I am not guilty," you say.

The man looks at you. He does not speak. He picks up the tray. He walks to the wall. He opens a panel in the wall. Behind the panel is a door. The door is open. Beyond the door is a hallway. The hallway is long. The hallway is dark.

"Go," he says.

You stand up. Your legs are stiff. Your wrists ache. The plastic cuffs are gone. You do not remember when they were removed. You do not remember when the glass was removed. You do not remember when the blood was removed.

You walk to the door. You walk into the hallway. The hallway is cold. The air is stale. The air smells of dust and old paper.

You walk. You walk for a long time. You do not stop. You do not look back. You do not look for the man. You do not look for the room. You do not look for the glass.

You walk until you reach the end of the hallway. At the end of the hallway is a door. The door is heavy. The door is iron. The door is locked.

You push against the door. It does not move. You pull on the door. It does not move. You kick the door. It does not move.

You are still in the glass. You are still in the mirror. You are still in the shard.

You look at your hands. They are clean. They are dry. They are empty.

You are free. You are trapped. You are alive. You are dead.

The door does not open. The light does not come. The rain does not stop.

You sit down in front of the door. You wait. You wait for the glass to break. You wait for the truth to come. You wait for Thomas to wake up.

You wait.

The silence is loud. The silence is heavy. The silence is full.

You close your eyes. You see the glass. You see the face. You see the blood. You see the hand.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not breathe.

You are the glass. You are the break. You are the end.