Shutter Island

The ferry knifes the slate at dawn. A badge, a file – the asylum on the edge of nowhere. A patient missing, a name erased. I taste the salt, the old war, the wrongness in the air. “Why are you all wet?” – the question comes back like a bruise. The doctor watches. The ceiling listens. I keep hearing “run,” though no one says it. Which would be worse — to live as a monster, or to die as a good man? The lighthouse burns through the fog. This island is a riddle with teeth. The storm shutters. The wards stay locked. A partner at my side – then not quite at my side. A note in my hand, a name that eats the light. Every corridor turns the same accusation back. Which would be worse — to live as a monster, or to die as a good man? The lighthouse burns through the fog. This island is a riddle with teeth. I follow the thread to the cliff, to the light. A woman in the fire. A girl in the rocks. I cannot tell memory from sentence. Which would be worse — to live as a monster, or to die as a good man? The lighthouse burns through the fog. This island is a riddle with teeth. “You have to let go.” What’s left of me walks toward the water. Ash on the ledger. Salt on the tongue. One man, one island, and the dark it came from.