The light fixture mounted to the ceiling was nearly blinding. The man could see nothing outside of the cone of light emitted by the fixture. He knew what was there, as it was his room wasn’t it? He didn’t know. The man stood in the centre of his room, glaring through the wall. He’d been standing there for hours. He’d been staring so long he felt like he might see himself if he turned around. He turned and saw nothing but the barrier created by the fixture. A void, a nothing permeating beyond the edge of his light space. What would he have done had the man seen himself? Would he be afraid? Would he be relieved at the evidence of his existence? He couldn’t say as he continued staring at the void. Why couldn’t he tell what was beyond the penumbra? Why couldn’t he remember? This was his room, wasn’t it? Was is not?

He reached his hand towards the terminator. His hand disappeared. He felt no sense of temperature. It felt as though his hand had been detached from his body, his mind no longer bothering to remember where it was. He took a step toward the edge, his arm outstretched, pushing into the nothingness behind the barrier. It disappeared. He placed his head outside the light. He . . .

The man’s body, with a missing arm and head, stood motionless in the light, like a puppet without a master. It would never move again, nor had it ever moved once before.