You wake up in a room made of glass. It is a small room. The walls are thick. The air is cold. You are wearing a white dress. It is too big. It smells of bleach and old paper. You sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress is hard. You look at your hands. They are pale. They are shaking.

A voice speaks from the corner. It is a dry voice. It sounds like leaves scraping on pavement.

"Get up, Margaret. The cycle begins."

You stand. Your legs are stiff. You walk to the center of the room. There is a chair. It is metal. It is bolted to the floor. You sit down. The chair is cold.

"Who are you?" you ask.

The voice does not answer. A door slides open. It is silent. A man walks in. He is tall. He wears a grey suit. His face is smooth. He has no wrinkles. His eyes are black. They are deep. He does not blink.

"Good morning," he says. His voice is soft. It is polite.

"I am Margaret," you say.

"I know who you are," he says. He smiles. It is a thin smile. "I am the Manager. I am here to help you."

"Help me with what?"

"Your ritual," he says.

You look at the walls. They are clear. You can see the outside. It is dark. There are no trees. There are no streets. There is only a grey fog. It moves slowly. It is thick.

"I don't remember this," you say.

"That is the point," the Manager says. He walks closer. He stands in front of you. He is looking at you. He is not looking at your eyes. He is looking at your chest. "You must find the center. The center is the truth. The truth is the cure."

"The cure for what?"

"For the doubt," he says. "For the noise in your head. For the fear that you are not enough. We are here to fix that. We are here to make you whole."

You feel a chill. It is not from the air. It is from him. He is too calm. He is too sure. You look at the floor. There is a crack in the glass. It is small. It is like a hair.

"I don't want to be whole," you say. "I want to be free."

The Manager tilts his head. "Freedom is a myth, Margaret. It is a hole in the ground. You fall in. You fall out. You fall in again. We offer you a floor. A solid floor. You can stand on it. You can rest."

You look at him. You see his reflection in the glass wall. It is not his reflection. It is your reflection. You are wearing the grey suit. You have the black eyes. You have the thin smile.

"Is that me?" you ask.

"That is your potential," he says. "Look at you. You are messy. You are broken. You are leaking. Look at the cracks. Look at the dust. You are a disaster. I can clean it up. I can make you shine. Just say yes. Just trust me."

You look at your hands again. They are not shaking now. They are still. They are strong. You make a fist.

"I don't trust you," you say.

The Manager’s smile does not change. "That is okay. Trust is a muscle. You will build it. We have all day. We have all night. We have forever."

The door slides open again. Another man walks in. He is shorter. He wears a blue shirt. He is sweating. He looks tired. He is holding a clipboard.

"Schedule update," the short man says. He looks at the Manager. "She is resisting. Again."

"Resistance is part of the process," the Manager says. His voice is flat. "Punish the resistance. Reward the compliance."

The short man looks at you. "You need to move to the next stage. The white room is for the beginners. You are not a beginner. You are advanced. You are ready for the gold."

"Gold?" you ask.

"It is a light," the short man says. "It is warm. It is bright. It is the prize. You will see it. You will hold it. You will be perfect."

You look at the Manager. "What happens if I refuse?"

The Manager steps closer. His face is inches from yours. You can smell him. He smells of nothing. He smells of air. He smells of the void.

"Then you stay here," he says. "You stay in the glass. You stay in the cold. You stay in the dark. You will never leave. You will rot. You will fade. You will become part of the wall."

You look at the wall. You see the crack. It is growing. It is spreading. It is like a vein. It is black.

"I will not rot," you say.

"You will," he says. "I have seen it before. I have seen women like you. They are so angry. They are so loud. They think they are brave. But they are just tired. They are just lost. And in the end, they choose the light. They choose the gold. They choose me."

The short man is typing on his clipboard. He is making sounds. Click, click, click. It is the sound of a clock. It is the sound of a trap closing.

"Time to go," the short man says. He looks at you. His eyes are wet. He is crying. He does not care. "The gold room is ready. It is waiting for you. It is warm. It is safe. Come."

The Manager puts his hand on your shoulder. His hand is heavy. It is like stone. It presses down. You feel your spine bend. You feel your breath stop.

"Come," he says. "Let me guide you. Let me save you. Look at the light. Look at the beauty. Look at the end of your pain."

You look at the door. It is open. There is a light spilling in. It is yellow. It is bright. It is blinding. It is beautiful. It is terrible.

You think of your mother. She is dead. She died in a house with a red door. She smelled of lavender. She was loud. She was messy. She was alive.

You think of your father. He was quiet. He was kind. He died of a heart attack. He left a note. It said, "I am sorry I could not fix it."

You think of yourself. You are here. You are in the glass. You are in the cold.

"I don't want the gold," you say.

The Manager’s face changes. It is a small change. It is a flicker. It is a crack in the mirror. "That is a lie," he says. "You want it. You want to be perfect. You want to be saved. Say yes. Say yes, and you will be free. Say no, and you will be trapped."

You look at the short man. He is looking at you. He is begging you. His eyes are wide. He is terrified.

"I am not trapped," you say. "I am here. I am real. You are not real. You are a story. You are a dream. I am waking up."

The Manager steps back. He looks confused. He touches his face. He looks at his hands. They are turning clear. They are turning into glass.

"What are you doing?" he asks. His voice is thin. It is breaking.

"I am remembering," you say. "I am remembering who I am. I am not your prisoner. I am not your patient. I am not your product. I am Margaret. And I am done."

The glass wall cracks. It is a loud sound. It is like a thunderclap. The room shakes. The floor shakes. The light from the door is flaring. It is getting brighter. It is getting hotter.

The short man is screaming. He is running. He is running into the light. He is burning. He is melting.

The Manager is standing in the center of the room. He is looking at you. He is smiling. But the smile is gone. His face is blank. He is empty.

"Look at you," he says. His voice is fading. "You are so alone. You are so small. You are nothing. You are dust. You are air. You are gone."

"I am not gone," you say. "I am here. I am breathing. I am alive."

The glass shatters. It is not a crash. It is a sigh. The walls dissolve. The floor dissolves. The light dissolves.

You are standing in a field. It is green. It is wet. The grass is tall. It is cold. The air is sharp. You can smell the earth. You can smell the rain.

You are alone.

You look at your hands. They are muddy. They are dirty. They are yours.

You look at the sky. It is grey. It is vast. It is empty.

You take a step. Your foot sinks into the mud. It is heavy. It is real.

You take another step. It is hard. It is painful.

You keep walking. You do not know where you are going. You do not know if there is a place to go. You do not know if anyone is waiting for you.

But you are walking.

You are free.

You are broken.

You are here.