The glass is broken.

It sits in the corner. A spider web. Thick. White. Stuck to the pane.

I do not clean it.

I sit on the floor. Back against the wall. The air is cold. The window is open. Just a crack.

A bird lands on the sill.

It is a sparrow.

Small. Brown.

It looks at me.

I look at it.

"Hello," I say.

My voice is rough. Like sandpaper.

The bird does not move. It tilts its head. One eye. Black. Bead-like.

I have been here for three days. Or four. I lost count.

The walls are white. The floor is wood. Creaky.

I am in a box. A white box.

They call it a unit.

I am a prisoner.

Not of chains. Of words.

Of looks.

I am the sick one. The broken one.

The sparrow hops. One step. Then another.

It pecks at the sill. A grain. A crumb.

I watch its beak. Open. Close.

So fast.

So precise.

I miss the sound.

I used to make sound. Music. Notes.

Now I make silence.

A knock.

Three times.

Short. Sharp.

I freeze.

The sparrow flies.

It shoots out into the gray sky.

Gone.

Footsteps in the hall.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The door opens.

Light floods in.

Too bright.

I squint.

A man stands there.

Tall. Thin.

He wears a gray coat.

His face is pale.

He does not speak.

He just looks.

I look down.

My hands are on my knees.

Clasped.

White knuckles.

"You are still here," he says.

His voice is low. Soft.

Like water.

"I am," I say.

He steps in.

The door stays open.

The hallway is dark.

He does not close it.

He walks to the chair.

Sits.

He does not look at me.

He looks at the wall.

At the empty space where the painting used to be.

There is a mark. A rectangle. Faded.

He stares at it.

"Did you sleep?" he asks.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I could not."

He nods.

A small movement.

He looks at me then.

His eyes are tired.

Dark circles.

He is not angry.

He is not kind.

He is just there.

He is the observer.

I am the observed.

This is how it is.

Always.

"Do you remember the bird?" I ask.

He blinks.

"Which bird?"

"The sparrow. On the sill."

He frowns.

"I did not see it."

"It was here. I saw it."

"Perhaps. I was not looking."

He shifts in the chair.

The wood creaks.

I know that sound.

It is the same creak as the floor.

The same creak as the building.

Everything creaks here.

It is old.

Or it is dying.

"Marcus," he says.

It is my name.

He says it like a test.

Like he is checking if the stone is still in the wall.

"I am Marcus," I say.

"I know."

"Who am I?"

He smiles.

A tiny thing.

Not warm.

Sad.

"You are the man who broke the vase."

I shake my head.

"No. I am the man who watched the bird."

"The bird is not here, Marcus."

"It was."

"It is gone now."

"Yes."

"Everything is gone now."

He stands up.

He walks to the window.

He looks out.

I see his back.

Straight.

Shoulders hunched slightly.

He does not turn around.

"Tell me about the bird," he says.

"Brown. Small. Bead eyes."

"Did it sing?"

"No."

"Did it fly?"

"Yes. It flew away."

"Where to?"

"I do not know."

"Up?"

"Yes."

"Into the sky?"

"Yes."

He turns.

His face is unreadable.

"Is the sky safe?"

I do not answer.

He waits.

I look at the broken glass in the corner.

The shards catch the light.

Tiny diamonds.

Blind.

"I do not know," I say.

He sighs.

It is a short breath.

Exhaled through the nose.

He walks back to the chair.

Sits.

He puts his hands on his lap.

His fingers are long.

Pale.

They tremble.

Just a little.

I see it.

I have always seen it.

He is afraid.

I am not.

I am empty.

Empty is safer.

"Marcus," he says again.

"Yes."

"You are not sick."

I look at him.

"What?"

"You are not sick. You are not broken."

I laugh.

A dry sound.

Like leaves on pavement.

"Are you?"

"I am the doctor."

"No. You are the guard."

He stiffens.

His eyes narrow.

"Just a moment," he says.

"Is that what this is? A guard post?"

"It is a room. It is a place for you to rest."

"Rest. From what?"

"From yourself."

I stand up.

My legs are weak.

I stumble.

I catch the wall.

My hand slides down.

The paint is chipped.

I look at my hand.

It is shaking now.

Too.

We are the same.

Both shaking.

Both trapped.

He stands up.

He walks toward me.

Slow.

Step by step.

He stops in front of me.

Close.

I can smell his soap.

Lavender.

Faint.

Old.

"Look at me," he says.

I do not look.

I look at his feet.

Shoes. Black. Polished.

Clean.

My shoes are dirty.

Mud on the toe.

From the garden.

There is no garden.

I am imagining the mud.

"Marcus," he says.

His voice is soft.

"Please."

I look up.

His face is inches away.

I see his eyes.

They are blue.

Light.

Like the sky.

Like the sky where the bird went.

I see something in them.

Fear.

Real fear.

Not the fear of the room.

The fear of me.

He is afraid of me.

I am the monster.

I am the disease.

And he is the cure.

Or the jailer.

"Let me go," I say.

"I cannot do that."

"Why?"

"Because you are dangerous."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Prove it."

He steps back.

He puts his hands in his pockets.

He looks at the ceiling.

"I cannot prove it. I can only see it."

"See what?"

"Your eyes. When you look at the bird. You wanted to catch it."

"I wanted to watch it."

"You wanted to own it."

"No."

"Yes."

He says it.

Simple.

Final.

Like a sentence.

I feel the weight of it.

It lands on my chest.

Heavy.

I breathe.

In.

Out.

The air is thin.

"Then you are the bird," I say.

He blinks.

"What?"

"You. You are the bird. You fly away. I am the ground. I am the trap. I am the glass."

He does not move.

He is still.

Statue.

"Marcus," he whispers.

"I am not the bird," I say.

"I am the one who breaks the glass."

He looks at the corner.

At the shards.

His face changes.

A flicker.

Pain.

Real pain.

He touches his face.

His hand hovers near his eye.

He is crying.

He does not know he is crying.

Or he does not care.

"I am sorry," he says.

His voice breaks.

It cracks.

Like the glass.

"I am sorry."

"For what?"

"For keeping you here."

"For not letting me see the sky."

He nods.

He looks at me.

His eyes are wet.

Blue.

Shining.

"I have to go," he says.

"Where?"

"Out."

"Can you?"

He looks at the door.

The open door.

The dark hallway.

He nods.

He turns.

He walks to the door.

He stops.

He looks back.

One last look.

His face is clear.

No mask.

No doctor.

No guard.

Just a man.

Tired.

Sad.

Broken.

"Goodbye, Marcus," he says.

I do not speak.

I just watch.

He steps out.

His feet cross the threshold.

Into the dark.

The door stays open.

The light goes out.

The room is dark.

I am alone.

I sit on the floor.

I look at the corner.

The glass.

It is not just glass.

It is a mirror.

Shattered.

I see myself in the pieces.

Hundreds of pieces.

Hundreds of eyes.

Hundreds of me.

I am not one person.

I am many.

I am the bird.

I am the cage.

I am the key.

I stand up.

My legs are strong.

I walk to the window.

The sky is gray.

Heavy.

Clouds.

Low.

I put my hand on the glass.

It is cold.

I press my face against it.

I breathe.

My breath fogs the pane.

I wipe it.

With my hand.

I look out.

There is no bird.

There is no sky.

There is only the wall.

Across the yard.

White.

Blank.

I look down.

My reflection.

Pale.

Hollow.

I am the machine.

The distant machine.

It runs.

And runs.

And runs.

I close the window.

The latch clicks.

Locked.

I am safe.

I am alone.

I sit on the floor.

I wait.

For the next knock.

For the next voice.

For the next lie.

I do not move.

I do not speak.

I am still.

The dust settles.

The silence grows.

It fills the room.

It fills me.

I am full.

I am empty.

I am here.

I am gone.

The bird is gone.

The man is gone.

I am here.

I am the glass.

I am the shard.

I am the cut.

It does not bleed.

It just cuts.

Quietly.

Deeply.

Forever.

I close my eyes.

I see the brown.

The small.

The bead eyes.

I see the flight.

Up.

Up.

Into the gray.

I follow it.

With my mind.

Up.

Past the roof.

Past the clouds.

Past the sky.

Into the nothing.

Into the all.

I am flying.

I am not.

I am Marcus.

I am the prisoner.

I am the warden.

I am the bird.

I am the cage.

I am the key.

I am the lock.

I am the door.

I am the wall.

I am the floor.

I am the air.

I am the silence.

I am the sound.

I am the break.

I am the whole.

I open my eyes.

The room is the same.

White.

Cold.

Broken.

I am the same.

Tired.

Sad.

Broken.

But I know the truth.

The truth is simple.

The bird was never outside.

The bird was never inside.

The bird was me.

And I am the bird.

And I am the glass.

And I am the light.

And I am the dark.

I stand up.

I walk to the door.

I open it.

The hallway is bright.

I step out.

My feet hit the tile.

Cold.

Hard.

I walk.

Step by step.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

I do not know where I am going.

I do not care.

I am moving.

I am free.

Or I am lost.

It is the same.

I walk.

The sound of my shoes.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Like a heart.

Like a clock.

Like a machine.

Distant.

Close.

Loud.

Soft.

I walk.