12 October

I am forty-two years old, Major Halloway, and I am writing this letter by candlelight because the gas main in the house has been cut off for non-payment, a detail I mention not to beg for charity, but to establish the precise temperature of my shame. I require a tribunal. I require my name cleared before the board convenes on the twentieth. The rumors are false. I am not a butcher. I am not a man who breaks bones for sport. I am a constable. I am thorough. There is a difference, though I see now how easily the two are conflated in the eyes of those who do not understand the weight of the badge. The house is silent. It has been silent for three days. I went to the pantry to fetch a loaf of bread, a simple act of sustenance, and when I broke the crust, it did not crack. It crumbled. It turned to gray ash in my palms. I brushed it off my hands, but the dust remained, settling into the whorls of my fingerprints. I tried again with a different loaf. Same result. The bread in this house is cursed, or perhaps I am. It feels like a mark of guilt, a physical manifestation of the rot inside me. I write to you, my superior, to deny the cruelty. I am not cruel. I am just doing my job. The ash spreads to the flour sack. I cannot eat. I am starving, yet I feel full of a hollow, gray weight that sits in my stomach like a stone.

15 October

Your reply came yesterday, wrapped in plain brown paper. You cite my "excessive zeal" in the border raids. You use the word *zeal* as if it were a clinical term, a diagnosis rather than an accusation. You say the complaints are mounting. You say the families of the detained are speaking of broken ribs and missing teeth. I am not cruel, I argued in my last letter, and I will argue it again here. I am just thorough. If a suspect resists, they are handled. If they struggle, they are restrained. That is the law. That is the duty. But the ash has spread. It is in the flour. It is in the tea I brew. I tried to eat a piece of toast this morning, and my teeth ground against grit that tasted of old smoke and dead leaves. I spat it out. I am starving. My hands shake when I hold the pen. I look at the mirror above the washbasin and I do not see my face. I see a stranger. A man with eyes that are too wide, too hungry. I am punishing myself, I think. I am punishing myself for being too good at my job. The hunger is a constant companion. It gnaws at the lining of my throat. I cannot sleep. I sit in the chair by the window and watch the street below. People walk by. They eat. They laugh. They do not know that the bread in my pantry is ash. They do not know that I am eating the air.

18 October

I visited my sister, Elara, today. She is dying. The wasting sickness has taken her face, her hands, her voice. She lies in the bed in the back room, the curtains drawn against the afternoon light. I brought her a bowl of soup, though I know she cannot swallow it. She laughed when I entered. It was a dry, rattling sound. "You look thin, Thomas," she said. "You are eating the world, Thomas," she continued, her eyes bright with a feverish clarity. "And it rots in your mouth." I tried to tell her about the tribunal. I tried to tell her about Halloway and the file and the accusations. She shook her head. "You are the monster you hunt," she said. "You think you are the law, but you are only the violence of it." I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her that I was protecting her, that I was protecting us all. But the words died in my throat. I realized then that I had been punishing myself, not the guilty. I had been feeding on the fear of the people I arrested. I had been drinking their terror like wine. I am the monster. The ash in the bread is my own making. I sat by her bed and held her hand. It was cold and dry as parchment. I did not leave. I sat there until the candle burned low.

20 October

The tribunal began at nine o’clock. The room was cold. The chairs were hard. Halloway stood at the front, holding my file. He did not look at me. He looked at the document. He read my service record. He read the complaints. He read my letters. He read the words *zeal* and *thorough* and *duty*. I saw my face in the ink. I saw the distortion of my own delusions. I did not defend myself. I stood. I did not sit. I stood with my hands at my sides, letting the silence stretch. The ash was in my lungs. I could feel it there, a fine powder coating the inside of my chest. Halloway looked up. He looked at me with pity. It was a terrible look. It was the look of a man looking at a stain on his carpet. I am no longer a man. I am a stain. I am a mark that needs to be washed out.

21 October

I confessed. Not to the crime. I did not break any bones. I did not kick any men. I confessed to the lie. I admitted that I wanted to be the law. I wanted to be the force that decides who lives and who suffers. I wanted to be the hand that holds the whip. I wanted to be the judge. Halloway was silent. He listened. He did not interrupt. When I finished, he closed the file. He looked at me. He did not say a word. He just nodded. It was a small, sad movement. I understood. I had crossed a line. I had become the thing I was paid to fight. I was no longer a servant of the law. I was the law, and the law is unjust. I am unjust. I am a stain.

22 October

I was stripped of my rank at noon. They took the badge from my chest. They took the uniform. I stood there in my shirt and trousers, feeling naked. I walked out of the courthouse. The sun was bright. It felt like a blade. It cut into my eyes. It cut into my skin. I went home. The house was empty. Elara was gone. She had died in the night. The doctor had come and gone. The room was clean. The bed was made. There was no one to tell about the ash. There was no one to tell about the hunger. I walked into the kitchen. I looked at the pantry. The door was closed. I opened it. The shelves were bare. Except for one loaf. One loaf of bread. It was fresh. It was white. It was soft.

23 October

I found the last loaf of bread. It was on the top shelf, hidden behind a tin of flour that was empty. I took it down. I held it in my hands. It was warm. It was soft. I broke it. I ate. I chewed slowly. I swallowed. It tasted like nothing. It tasted like freedom. I am alone. I am clean. The ash is gone. The hunger is gone. I sit at the table. I look out the window. The sun is still bright. It is still a blade. But I am no longer afraid of it. I am no longer afraid of the dark. I am no longer afraid of the law. I am just a man. I am just a man who has eaten the world and found it empty. I am clean. I am free. I am alone.