The alarm clock on the nightstand shakes the glass. You do not sleep. You never sleep well in this room. It smells of antiseptic and old dust. The light is grey. It is early. You are forty-two years old. You have been a police officer for twenty years. Your knees ache. Your back is a knot of pain. You pull on your boots. They are heavy. They are worn. The leather is cracked at the toe. You have worn these boots for five years. They are soft now. They are part of you.

You walk down the hallway. The floorboards creak. You pass the office of the Chief. His door is closed. He is inside. You can hear him breathing. He is heavy. He is sleeping. You do not knock. You go to the break room. You make coffee. The machine hisses. It is loud. It is violent. You pour the liquid into a mug. The mug is white. It has a chip in the rim. You have used it for a decade. You hold it with both hands. The heat burns your palms. You do not let go.

Your wife, Sarah, is gone. She left three months ago. She took the children. She took the dog. She took the quiet. She did not leave a note. She just left. You know where she is. She is with her sister in Portland. You do not call. You do not write. You cannot. The silence in the house is too loud. It presses against your eardrums. It rings. You need the noise of the station. You need the radio. You need the chaos.

You walk into the main office. The lights are fluorescent. They buzz. They are harsh. You sit at your desk. You open the drawer. You take out your badge. It is gold. It is bright. It reflects the ceiling lights. You hold it in your hand. It is warm. It is heavy. It is the only thing that feels real. The badge is not just metal. It is a promise. It is a shield. It is a wall between you and the world. You wear it on your belt. You touch it. You feel the weight of it. You feel the power of it.

The phone rings. It is sharp. It is sudden. You pick it up. It is a dispatch. There is a fight in the warehouse district. Two men. No weapons. Just fists. You sigh. You stand up. Your knees pop. You grab your jacket. You put on your hat. The brim is bent. You walk out the door. The air is cold. It bites your face. You walk to the car. The engine turns over. It coughs. It starts. You drive through the empty streets. The city is asleep. The streets are wet. The rain has stopped. The air is clean. It smells of wet asphalt.

You arrive at the warehouse. It is a big building. It is old. The paint is peeling. The windows are broken. You park the car. You get out. You walk toward the sound. You hear shouting. You hear thuds. You see the door. It is open. You step inside. The light is dim. The floor is concrete. It is cold. You see two men. They are on the ground. They are rolling. They are hitting each other. They are screaming. They are not holding weapons. They are using their hands. They are using their feet. They are using their bodies.

You step forward. You raise your hand. You shout. Stop. The men look up. They see you. They see the badge. They stop. They are breathing hard. Their faces are red. Their noses are bleeding. They look at you. They look at the ground. They are not dangerous. They are just angry. They are just men. You look at them. You do not arrest them. You do not take their names. You just stand there. You watch them. They get up. They walk away. They do not look back. They disappear into the dark.

You stand alone in the warehouse. The silence returns. It is heavy. It is thick. You feel the weight of the badge. It is pulling down your belt. It is pulling down your soul. You remember Sarah. You remember her face. You remember her hands. You remember the way she used to touch your badge. She used to say it was too much. She said it was cold. She said it was hard. She said it was not enough. She was right. It is not enough. The badge is a lie. It is a mask. It is a wall that keeps you out. It is a wall that keeps you in.

You walk back to the car. You sit in the driver’s seat. You do not start the engine. You look at the badge. It is on your belt. It is still there. It is still gold. It is still bright. You take it off. You hold it in your hand. You look at it. You see your reflection. It is small. It is old. It is tired. You throw the badge on the passenger seat. It clinks. It is loud. It is final. You do not put it back on. You leave it there. You start the car. You drive home.

The house is dark. The lights are off. The silence is waiting. You walk in. You close the door. You take off your boots. You leave them by the door. You walk to the bedroom. The bed is empty. The sheets are cold. You sit on the edge. You look at the mirror. You see your face. It is not the face of a police officer. It is the face of a man. It is the face of a husband. It is the face of a father. You are broken. You are tired. You are empty.

You get up. You walk to the bathroom. You turn on the tap. The water runs. It is cold. You put your hands under the water. You wash your hands. You scrub them. You scrub until they are red. You scrub until the skin is raw. You feel the pain. It is good. It is real. You turn off the tap. You look in the mirror. Your eyes are red. Your face is pale. You are not a hero. You are not a villain. You are just a man. You are just a body. You are just flesh.

You walk back to the bedroom. You lie down. You do not sleep. You think about the warehouse. You think about the men. You think about the fight. You think about the badge. You think about Sarah. You think about the children. You think about the future. It is dark. It is long. It is uncertain. You do not know what comes next. You do not know if you will be okay. You do not know if you will be strong. You do not know if you will be brave. You do not know if you will be enough.

The night passes. The light changes. The sun rises. It is grey. It is weak. It does not bring warmth. It does not bring hope. It brings only time. Time moves. It does not stop. It does not wait. It does not care. It just goes. You watch the light change. You watch the shadows move. You watch the dust dance. You watch the life go on. You are still here. You are still breathing. You are still alive.

You get up. You go to the kitchen. You make coffee. The machine hisses. It is loud. It is violent. You pour the liquid into a mug. The mug is white. It has a chip in the rim. You hold it with both hands. The heat burns your palms. You do not let go. You drink. The coffee is bitter. It is strong. It is real. You walk out the door. The air is cold. It bites your face. You walk to the car. You do not get in. You walk to the station.

You walk down the street. The people are waking up. The shops are opening. The buses are running. The city is alive. It is busy. It is loud. It is chaotic. You walk through it. You are part of it. You are not separate. You are not above. You are not below. You are just a man. You are just a body. You are just flesh.

You arrive at the station. The lights are on. The phones are ringing. The officers are talking. The radio is buzzing. It is the same as always. It is the same as before. It is the same as it will be. You walk into the main office. You sit at your desk. You open the drawer. You do not take out your badge. You leave it in the car. You leave it on the seat. You leave it in the past. You sit. You wait. You breathe. You listen. The noise fills the room. It fills your head. It fills your heart. It fills your soul.

You are not a hero. You are not a villain. You are just a man. You are just a body. You are just flesh. You are here. You are now. You are enough.