The ribbon snaps first.

It is a bright red thing. It hangs from your left shoulder strap. It is the insignia of your rank. It is the only thing that is still intact. The rest of you is shaking. Your hands are shaking. The coffee in your mug is shaking. The liquid ripples in concentric circles. You stare at the ripples. You do not drink.

The office is small. It is beige. The carpet is beige. The walls are beige. The light from the window is grey. It is a Tuesday. It is cold. You are wearing your uniform. The uniform is pressed. The uniform is clean. The uniform is a lie.

You sit in the chair. The chair is hard. The chair is cold. You are Major James Whitmore. You are forty years old. You are a man of rules. You are a man of order. You are a man who does not break.

The door opens.

Captain Thomas Bradshaw enters. He is tall. He is thin. He has a face like a knife. He does not smile. He never smiles. He holds a folder. The folder is blue. The folder is thick.

He sits across from you. He places the folder on the desk. He taps the folder. He looks at you. You look at the ribbon. The ribbon is torn. The red thread hangs loose. It looks like a vein.

"James," he says.

He uses your first name. This is wrong. He is your superior. He should use your rank. He should use your last name. He uses your first name. This is a trap. This is a test.

You say nothing. You wait.

"Read it," he says.

You open the folder. You pick up the first page. The paper is white. The ink is black. The words are small. You read the first line. You read the second line. You read the third line.

You did not kill him.

You read it again.

You did not kill him.

You look up. Bradshaw is watching you. His eyes are flat. His eyes are empty. He is waiting for you to break. He is waiting for you to scream. He is waiting for you to lie.

You do not scream. You do not lie. You put the paper down. Your hand is steady. Your heart is not steady. Your heart is a bird in a cage. It is beating fast. It is beating hard.

"Who?" you ask.

Bradshaw does not answer. He opens the second page. He points to a name. The name is Eleanor.

Your sister.

You know this name. You know this face. You know this voice. She is dead. She has been dead for three days. They told you she died of an illness. They told you she died in her sleep. They told you it was natural. They told you to sign the papers. They told you to come to work. They told you to keep your head down.

They lied.

You look at Bradshaw. You look at the folder. You look at the torn ribbon on your shoulder.

"Who killed her?" you ask.

Bradshaw leans back. He crosses his legs. He looks at the ceiling. He looks at the wall. He does not look at you.

"Protocol," he says.

The word is a stone. It drops into your stomach. It sinks. It settles.

"Protocol," he says again.

He closes the folder. He slides it across the desk. He pushes it toward you.

"Sign here," he says.

He points to a line at the bottom of the page. The line is short. The line is black.

You do not move.

"James," he says.

His voice is low. His voice is soft. It is the voice of a man who has done this many times. It is the voice of a man who is bored.

"Sign here," he says.

You look at the line. You look at your hand. Your hand is a tool. Your hand is a weapon. Your hand is a thing that holds things. Your hand is a thing that releases things.

You think of Eleanor. You think of her hands. Her hands were soft. Her hands were warm. She used to braid your hair when you were a boy. She used to hum when she cooked. She used to laugh when she was happy. She is gone. She is in a box. She is in the ground.

You think of the system. You think of the walls. You think of the rules. You think of the order. You think of the peace.

The system did this. The system killed her. The system killed her to save itself. The system killed her to keep the peace. The system killed her to keep the machine running.

You look at Bradshaw. He is still looking at the ceiling. He is waiting.

You pick up the pen.

The pen is black. The pen is cold. The pen is heavy.

You do not sign.

You stand up.

Bradshaw looks at you. His eyes widen. His face changes. The boredom leaves. The fear arrives.

"Sit down," he says.

You do not sit down.

You walk to the door.

"James," he says.

His voice is sharp. His voice is hard.

You stop. You turn around.

"Sit down," he says.

You look at him. You look at the torn ribbon. You look at the red thread.

You realize something.

You realize that the ribbon is not part of the uniform. The ribbon is a piece of you. The ribbon is your honor. The ribbon is your loyalty. The ribbon is your life.

And the ribbon is broken.

You reach up. You grab the torn ribbon. You pull.

The fabric rips.

It comes off in your hand.

It is a strip of red cloth. It is a strip of your soul.

You hold it in your hand. You look at Bradshaw.

"I am done," you say.

Your voice is quiet. Your voice is calm.

Bradshaw stands up. He is no longer smiling. He is no longer bored. He is angry. He is afraid.

"Get out," he says.

You turn around. You walk to the door. You open the door. You step out into the hallway.

The hallway is long. The hallway is empty. The light is grey.

You walk.

You walk fast.

You walk to the elevator.

You press the button.

The elevator door opens.

You step in.

The door closes.

You are alone.

You look at the red ribbon in your hand.

You look at the buttons on the panel.

You press the ground floor.

The elevator descends.

You think of Eleanor.

You think of her face.

You think of her hands.

You think of the way she loved you.

It was not a choice.

It was a fact.

It was the air you breathed.

It was the blood in your veins.

The system took it.

The system killed it.

The system broke it.

You are still here.

You are still breathing.

You are still alive.

But you are not whole.

You are not whole.

The elevator stops.

The door opens.

You step out.

You walk to the exit.

You walk to the street.

It is raining.

The rain is cold.

The rain is grey.

You walk.

You do not look up.

You do not look down.

You walk.

You walk into the crowd.

You are no one.

You are no one.

You are no one.

The rain soaks your uniform.

The rain soaks your skin.

The rain washes away the dust.

The rain washes away the blood.

The rain washes away the shame.

You walk.

You walk home.

You walk to the house.

The house is dark.

The house is quiet.

You open the door.

You step inside.

You close the door.

You lock the door.

You stand in the hallway.

You look at the red ribbon in your hand.

You look at the floor.

You drop the ribbon.

It lands on the carpet.

It is a small red stain.

It is a small red tear.

It is a small red end.

You stand still.

You breathe in.

You breathe out.

You are empty.

You are free.

You are free.

The silence is loud.

The silence is heavy.

The silence is yours.

You are you.

You are James.

You are alive.

You are alone.

You are here.

You are now.

The story ends.

The machine stops.

The machine is silent.

The machine is dead.

You are the only thing left.

You are the only thing that matters.

You are the only thing that is real.

You are the only thing that is true.

You are the only thing that remains.

You are the only thing that is free.

You are the only thing that is whole.

No.

You are not whole.

You are broken.

But you are free.

And that is enough.

That is all.

That is everything.

You sit down.

You sit on the floor.

You lean against the wall.

You close your eyes.

You remember her.

You remember her love.

You remember her death.

You remember the lie.

You remember the truth.

You remember the choice.

You made the choice.

You made the right choice.

You made the only choice.

You are at peace.

You are at rest.

You are at home.

You are here.

You are now.

The end.