The depression is taking me.

I can feel it. At last, it's coming. The relief of escaping from this harsh reality. Into a void of peace. How calming the prospect is.

I sense the presence of [*256]. He's listening to me. He's preparing to ask me to speak my mind. And I will.

"Welcome me with open arms," I say.

[*256] does not immediately respond. He must be examining and judging me, drawing his own conclusions on whether I am too battered to return to reality.

"What do you mean?", he says.

I mentally jolt. That's not the voice of [*256]. That's the voice of the hands of cruelty! I'm not on the verge of peace. I'm still trapped!

"What . . . You, you . . .", I stammer.

"What is the matter?", the hand says. "You said you were depressed. I want to help you."

"I was . . . I almost escaped from you," I say. "But you . . . You are keeping me from my well-deserved peace of mind!"

"I'm not so cruel as to let you die in depression. I honestly want to help you however I can," the hand says. "Open your eyes if you can."

I open my eyes, and immediately say, "And what is your point? You're just like any other hand of cruelty."

"Speak your mind. Tell me what's been pent up in you," the hand says. "Let your emotions out."

These words give me pause. This is exactly how I would imagine [*256] speaking. And the fact that a hand of cruelty is saying it . . . Maybe, just maybe, he has good intentions.

- More Wars, Bloodier Wars, 2024.1.14.E