Carolina Confidential

by Dray Orion

ALL RISE:
THE SOUL VS. THE SELF

by Dray Orion

---

Act I — Opening Statements:
The Accusation

The lights hum before they rise. Dust floats like ash in the air, catching the glow that leaks through cracked blinds. The room smells like old wood and regret—the kind of place where truth doesn’t come easy. It isn’t the first time this court has been called to session—just the first time I showed up willingly.

A voice calls from nowhere:
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Reason, presiding over the matter of The Soul vs. The Self.”

Chairs scrape. Shadows shift. Somewhere in the corner, Reason takes his seat behind the bench—gray suit, black robe, tired eyes, voice like a clock that’s been running too long.

REASON: This court will come to order. The matter before us: The Soul vs. The Defendant—Self.
Charges include emotional negligence, reckless feeling, and habitual suppression of truth. How does the defendant plead?

I open my mouth, but all that comes out is air—an old habit of swallowing sound. The air feels too heavy to answer.

At one table sits Guilt, the Prosecutor—precise and polished, already building his case. Across from him, Empathy, my Defense, waits with quiet patience.

From the table across the aisle, a figure stands—polished shoes, perfect posture, a suit so sharp you could cut your finger on it. Guilt doesn’t need to raise his voice to command the room.

GUILT: Your Honor, the defendant has no plea because he’s made a career out of silence. Every time he should’ve spoken, he swallowed the words and called it strength. Every time he should’ve listened, he built walls and named them boundaries. I’ll prove that every emotion in this room has suffered under his watch.

Guilt’s voice is sharp and rehearsed—like a blade that’s been waiting for its turn. The briefcase snaps open. Inside, neatly stacked memories wait like exhibits.

REASON: And for the Defense?

Empathy speaks softly.

EMPATHY: Your Honor, the Defense is prepared to show that the accused didn’t mean harm—only survival. That he carried too much for too long and mistook endurance for apathy. That his so-called negligence was a kind of triage—choosing which emotions to save when there wasn’t enough of him left for all of them.

Reason nods, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

The gavel falls—one hollow crack that echoes longer than it should.

REASON: Then let the record show: the defendant is charged with being human. Opening statements may proceed.

Guilt steps into the center of the room. The spotlight finds the gleam in his eyes.

GUILT: Members of this inner jury—Anger, Fear, Joy, Love, Sadness, and the others who sit in silence—you’ve all felt the defendant’s hand. He’s abandoned you when you were needed. Exploited you when you were fragile. Hidden you when the world asked for truth. He calls it control. I call it cowardice.

A low murmur ripples through the room—the sound of emotions remembering. Joy flinches. Fear looks down. Anger’s jaw tightens at the sound of his own name.

The gavel cracks once—sharp, final.

REASON: Order! The court will remain in order.

Empathy rises, smoothing her skirt, voice steady but soft enough to almost break.

EMPATHY: Objection, Your Honor. What the prosecution calls cowardice, I call consequence. You’ve seen what he’s survived—you’ve lived it, same as I have. If he hid you, it was only because he didn’t know the world would forgive him for letting you out.

REASON: Sustained. Counselor for the Defense, you may proceed with your opening statement.

Empathy takes a breath, steps forward. The light softens around her as if even the walls lean in to listen.

EMPATHY: Members of this inner jury—you’ve heard the charges, and you’ve heard his silence used against him. But silence isn’t always guilt. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s the only language left when pain outpaces words. You call it neglect; I call it endurance. You call it avoidance; I call it the cost of feeling too much for too long. The Defense will show that the accused is not cruel, not careless—just human. And being human has always been the hardest sentence of all.

Reason nods once, the faintest sign of approval.

REASON: Call your first witness when ready.

The gavel falls again.

Guilt turns toward me, lips curving into something like a secret he’s saving.

GUILT: The prosecution calls Fear to the stand.

The lights dim, and the hum grows louder—like something inside me waking up for the first time in years.

 

---

Act II —
Fear’s Testimony

The lights buzz before they rise—weak, trembling, like they’re afraid of what they might reveal. The courtroom feels colder now. Dust still hangs in the air, but slower this time, as if even gravity is hesitant.

Fear is already on his feet, making his way toward the stand. Small frame. Eyes down. Each step sounds like hesitation learning to breathe.

He doesn’t make a sound until he reaches the chair—and even then, it’s barely more than the whisper of fabric as he sits.

GUILT: Please state your name for the record.

FEAR: Fear.

The microphone pops with the quiet.

GUILT: Do you swear to tell the truth?

FEAR: I always tell the truth. It’s just that no one ever wants to hear it.

A shiver moves through the room.

GUILT: Fear, you’ve been a constant presence in the defendant’s life, haven’t you?

FEAR: Since the beginning.

GUILT: And would you say he relies on you?

FEAR: Relies? No. He endures me.

GUILT: But you’ve guided his choices, haven’t you?

FEAR: I’ve stopped him from dying. There’s a difference.

Guilt leans forward, sensing an opening.

GUILT: Tell the court what you stopped him from.

Fear looks down at his hands.

FEAR: From saying too much. From loving too deep. From getting close enough to lose. From walking into pain he wasn’t ready to survive again.

Guilt circles—he can sense blood in the waters now.

GUILT: So you admit it—you’ve held him back.

Empathy’s eyes soften, hands folded on the table.

EMPATHY: Objection, Your Honor—argumentative.

REASON: Overruled. I want to hear the answer.

The room stills. Even the hum seems to fade for a moment.

Fear’s eyes flicker; the air seems to hold its breath.

FEAR: I’ve kept him alive. You call it restraint; I call it survival. He doesn’t trust the world, and neither do I.

GUILT: Then tell us, Fear—why are you still here? What purpose do you serve now that the danger’s gone?

Fear hesitates. His voice fractures around the edges.

FEAR: Because the danger never left. It just changed faces. It became silence. It became memory. It became himself.

The words hang like fog.

GUILT: No further questions.

Reason turns toward Empathy.

REASON: Counselor for the Defense.

Empathy stands slowly, her movements deliberate, like she doesn’t want to startle him.

EMPATHY: Fear, you said you’ve been with him since the beginning. Can you tell us when that was?

FEAR: Before words. Before war. Before loss had a name.

EMPATHY: What do you remember most about him back then?

Fear’s eyes flicker, as if remembering costs him something.

FEAR: He used to laugh with his whole face. He used to run toward things. Now he measures every step like it’s a minefield.

EMPATHY: And when he stopped running, what did you do?

FEAR: I stood guard. Someone had to.

EMPATHY: Against what?

FEAR: Hope. It hurts worse than anything when it breaks.

Empathy pauses, then nods.

EMPATHY: Do you want him to let you go?

Fear looks up for the first time. His eyes glisten, not from tears, but from exhaustion.

FEAR: Want? Yes. But I don’t think he knows who he’d be without me.

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s dense. Full of understanding that no one wants to name.

EMPATHY: What are you most afraid of if he finally forgives himself

Fear blinks, once—slow. His mouth opens, but no sound comes. When he finally speaks, it’s barely more than breath.

FEAR: That he won’t need me anymore.

The room goes still. Even Reason looks down, fingers tracing the edge of the bench as if he’s searching for something to hold onto.

His voice, when it comes, has lost its echo.

REASON: You’ve said enough.

He clears his throat once—a small sound that almost hides the break in it.

REASON: This court will recess for fifteen minutes.

The gavel falls once—soft, almost merciful.

Fear doesn’t move. He just sits there, hands folded, eyes fixed on nothing.
Then—barely visible—his shoulders drop.
Like someone who’s been holding their breath for years and finally lets it go.

Empathy watches him for a long moment, then takes a small step toward the stand—not to touch, just to be near.

Reason removes his glasses, wipes them with a folded handkerchief, and for the first time since the trial began, he doesn’t put them back on.

The hum returns—low, rhythmic, almost like breathing.
And for a moment, it’s hard to tell whether it’s coming from the walls, or from me.

---

Act III —
Testimonies of Sadness and Love

The lights rise slow this time, as if they’re tired too. The air hangs thick with what Fear left behind. No one speaks for a long while—just the low hum of fluorescent light, the steady breathing of something broken but still alive.

Reason clears his throat, quiet now, gentler.

REASON: The court will reconvene. Counselor, your next witness.

Guilt stands but doesn’t look quite as sharp as before. His tie is loosened, his confidence muted.

GUILT: The prosecution calls Sadness to the stand.

The sound of her name alone seems to pull the light down. The walls hum lower. Even the floorboards creak softer, like they know her footsteps by heart.

Sadness enters without resistance—head bowed, shoulders sloped as though carrying something invisible and heavy. Her dress is simple, gray as old smoke. She doesn’t look at anyone as she sits.

REASON: Please state your name for the record.

SADNESS: Sadness.

Her voice is barely there, soft enough to make the microphone crackle.

GUILT: You’ve been with the defendant a long time, haven’t you.

SADNESS: Longer than most.

GUILT: Describe your relationship.

SADNESS: I wait for him. Always. He pretends not to see me, but I know when to come. I show up after the breaking—after the words, after the silence, after the world forgets him again.

GUILT: So you’re saying he depends on you.

Sadness shakes her head.

SADNESS: No. I’m what’s left when there’s nothing else to depend on.

A whisper moves through the jury—small gasps, shifting chairs.

The gavel cracks once—sharp, restrained.

REASON: Order.

Guilt straightens, voice regaining its edge.

GUILT: Tell me, Sadness—how often do you visit him?

SADNESS: As often as the world disappoints him.

GUILT: That sounds… constant.

SADNESS: It is.

Guilt steps closer.

GUILT: You fill his nights with silence, his mornings with weight, his hours with regret—and yet you call yourself necessary?

SADNESS: Someone has to remember what was lost.

GUILT: Or maybe you make him lose. Maybe you’ve kept him there—buried beneath the same ache you claim to heal.

Sadness looks up for the first time, eyes rimmed in gray.

SADNESS: You can’t bury someone who never left the grave.

The words hang heavy, neither defiant nor apologetic—just true.
Guilt’s expression falters for the first time—he straightens his tie, clears his throat.

GUILT: No further questions, Your Honor.

Reason nods once—slow—almost like he’s exhaling the weight of the room.

REASON: Counselor for the Defense. Your witness.

Empathy rises slowly. She doesn’t shuffle papers or clear her throat—she just stands there—like she’s been holding this moment in her chest for years.

EMPATHY: Sadness, you said you wait for him. Why?

Sadness folds her hands in her lap.

SADNESS: Because someone has to be there when the world isn’t. When everything else leaves, I stay. I always stay.

EMPATHY: Does he ask you to?

SADNESS: Not anymore. But he used to—in his own way—through silence, through whiskey, through the way he’d fix things just to avoid fixing himself.

Empathy nods.

EMPATHY: And when you’re with him, what happens?

SADNESS: Nothing. And everything. He stops pretending for a while. He lets it hurt. He remembers what he lost—and that remembering means he’s still capable of love.

The jury shifts, the air thick with unspoken words. Joy looks down. Love bites her lip. Even Anger, in the corner, clenches his fists just a little less tightly.

Guilt leans forward, voice sharp.

GUILT: You call that healing? All that ache? That stillness? That misery?

SADNESS: I call it the truth. You can’t heal what you refuse to feel.

The gavel cracks once.

REASON: Counselor, control your tone.

Guilt straightens but doesn’t look away.

Empathy steps closer to the stand. Her voice softens—the way rain softens ash.

EMPATHY: Sadness… if he finally let you rest, what would become of you?

Sadness hesitates. The silence stretches—long enough to feel holy.

SADNESS: I’d fade, maybe. Or maybe I’d just change shape. Grief becomes gratitude if you hold it long enough.

Even Reason exhales—slow, careful, as though afraid to break the spell.

EMPATHY: Do you love him?

SADNESS: Of course. That’s the cruelest part. Love and I were never meant to be separate.

Empathy nods, tears bright but unfallen.

EMPATHY: No further questions.

Reason’s gavel doesn’t fall this time.

He just sits there—quiet, unmoving—watching as Sadness lowers her head, folds her hands again, and becomes exactly what she’s always been—the echo that stays after the sound is gone.

For a long moment, no one moves. The room feels emptied out—like grief has taken all the air with it.

Reason exhales—slow, controlled—but his hand lingers near the gavel as if even he’s afraid to breathe too loud.

Then, quietly:

REASON: The court will continue. Counselor, your next witness.

Guilt hesitates before standing. His voice comes out softer this time—stripped of its earlier sharpness.

GUILT: The prosecution calls Love to the stand.

A hush ripples through the jury. Even Anger looks away. The air shifts—not heavy this time, but warm, trembling—like the room remembers something it’s not ready to feel again.

Love rises from her seat. She moves like light—slow, deliberate—illuminating everything she passes. Her dress is the color of mercy, her eyes tired but kind. When she takes the stand, the whole room seems to lean toward her without meaning to.

REASON: Please state your name for the record.

LOVE: Love.

Her voice doesn’t echo—it just settles everywhere.

GUILT: You’ve been the cause of much of his pain, haven’t you?

Love doesn’t flinch.

LOVE: I’ve been the reason he still feels at all.

GUILT: You left scars, didn’t you? Ones he still touches when he thinks no one sees.

LOVE: Scars aren’t my fault—they’re proof he tried.

GUILT: You call it trying. I call it delusion. You’ve blinded him, made him weak, kept him reaching for people who were never coming back.

LOVE: No—I kept him human. You can’t bleed and stay clean.

A whisper moves through the jury—quiet, uneasy. Reason taps his gavel once—just enough to remind the room who still holds order.

GUILT: Then tell me, Love—if you’re so pure, why does he fear you? Why does he run from what you offer?

LOVE: Because you taught him that losing love means losing worth. Every time someone left, you told him it was proof he wasn’t enough. I gave him hope. You gave him the echo.

For a heartbeat, Guilt falters. Then he recovers—chin up, voice sharper.

GUILT: Hope? That’s what you call it? You mean denial. He built entire fantasies around you—burned himself chasing ghosts. You made him reckless. You made him stay.

LOVE: I made him remember. Even pain is sacred if it meant he once felt alive.

The silence thickens again. Reason looks down, his thumb rubbing the edge of the bench like he’s trying to polish something that’s already worn smooth.

GUILT: No further questions, Your Honor.

Reason nods once—distant, thoughtful—before turning toward the Defense.

REASON: Counselor.

Empathy stands. She doesn’t carry notes this time. Her voice is low—the kind that feels like it’s been waiting for this moment all its life.

EMPATHY: Love, he’s tried to shut you out, hasn’t he?

LOVE: Many times.

EMPATHY: And yet you return. Why?

LOVE: Because someone has to remind him that the heart still works, even after it breaks.

Empathy steps closer.

EMPATHY: What do you want from him?

LOVE: Nothing. I just want him to stop mistaking survival for peace. To know that letting people in isn’t weakness—it’s the only way the light gets through.

Empathy’s throat tightens.

EMPATHY: Do you forgive him for turning you away?

LOVE: Always. That’s the part he never understood—I don’t leave when he hides. I wait.

Reason exhales through his nose—the smallest sound, but it carries.

EMPATHY: And what happens if he finally forgives himself?

Love looks out across the room—at Guilt, at Anger, at Fear—her voice no louder than a breath.

LOVE: Then maybe I’ll stop hurting too.

A stillness falls—not silence, but peace beginning to take shape.

Reason’s gavel doesn’t fall. His hand simply rests beside it.

REASON: That will be all.

He exhales, the room still trembling with what Love left behind.

REASON: This court will recess. Counselors, defendant—join me in chambers.

The gavel cracks once—sharp, restrained.

Love lowers her head, not in defeat, but in something that looks a lot like grace.

The hum returns—softer this time, steady, like the pulse of a world learning how to heal.

---

Act IV —
In Chambers

The lights dim. The echo of the courtroom fades until only the low hum of fluorescent light remains. When the lights rise again, the space has changed. No jury. No audience. Just a smaller room—the judge’s chambers. The air carries the weight of too many truths left standing.

Reason sits at his desk, robe loosened, glasses on the table. His gavel remains on the bench outside—he doesn’t need it here. Across from him sit Guilt, Empathy, and the Defendant—Self. The silence holds longer than any of them want.

REASON: This is off the record. No witnesses, no verdict—just a conversation. We’ve heard the testimonies. We’ve heard the echoes. Before this continues… I need to understand what we’re trying to prove anymore.

Guilt leans forward.

GUILT: The facts haven’t changed, Your Honor. He silenced Fear, buried Sadness, ran from Love. Neglect is neglect, no matter the reason.

Empathy’s voice softens.

EMPATHY: And survival is survival, no matter the wound.

GUILT: You keep excusing him—

EMPATHY: You keep condemning him for bleeding where no one could see.

Reason raises a hand. The sound of skin against air is enough to stop them.

REASON: Enough. We’re past the point of proof. Self—what do you want to say?

For the first time, Self looks up. Their voice isn’t strong—it’s rusted from disuse.

SELF: I don’t know how to talk without defending myself. Every word feels like evidence.

GUILT: Maybe it is.

SELF: Then what’s the point? You’ll call it denial. You always do.

Empathy’s tone softens again.

EMPATHY: Then don’t defend. Just speak.

Self exhales, a long sound that almost breaks into laughter, almost into tears.

SELF: You all talk about me like I’m a crime scene. Fear, Sadness, Love… they weren’t victims. They were all I had left. Every time I tried to heal, Guilt showed up with a clipboard and called it avoidance.

GUILT: Someone had to hold you accountable.

SELF: No—you needed me guilty so you could stay useful.

The room tightens. Guilt’s jaw flexes. Reason’s eyes close, a quiet wince.

REASON: He’s not wrong. Guilt, I’ve watched you turn remorse into residence. You don’t visit—you move in.

GUILT: Someone has to. When everyone else leaves—

EMPATHY: You chain him to the wreckage and call it justice.

Silence again—thick, uneven. The hum sounds louder in the small room.

REASON: I used to believe balance meant fairness. But maybe balance just means everything hurts equally.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, the weight of all three pressing in.

SELF: I didn’t ask to be forgiven. I just wanted to stop feeling like a case file.

EMPATHY: You don’t need forgiveness. You need to believe you’ve served your time.

Guilt looks down. His hands tighten around nothing.

GUILT: If he stops feeling me… then what am I?

REASON: Human. Like the rest of us.

A long pause. The room feels like it’s holding its breath.

EMPATHY: So what happens now?

Reason looks toward the door—the one that leads back to the courtroom. His voice drops, heavy with the knowledge of what’s coming.

REASON: Now… we let the final witness speak

Guilt straightens, uneasy. Self flinches like they already know.

SELF: Who’s left?

Reason reaches for his glasses—not to see, but to steady himself.

REASON: The one you’ve both been avoiding.

He looks toward the door. The lights dim. A low rumble grows—distant at first, then closer. The air trembles.

REASON: Anger’s been waiting a long time to be heard.

The hum seems to fade—as if silence itself was holding its breath before the storm.

---

Act V —
Anger’s Testimony

A heavy door slams somewhere in the back—the sound cuts through the air like a command. The hum from before deepens into a low vibration, steady and alive. The lights bleed warmer, a soft red seeping across the walls.

Anger enters without waiting for permission. His steps are slow but deliberate, like a fuse that already knows how long it has. The temperature rises with each step. Fear shifts in his seat. Joy clasps her hands tighter.

He reaches the stand, the floorboards creaking under his weight.

REASON: State your name for the record.

ANGER: You know who I am. You’ve been trying to silence me since the first time he bled.

Reason’s jaw tightens but he says nothing.

GUILT: For the record, we’ll mark you as Anger. Do you swear to tell the truth?

ANGER: Truth’s the only thing I’ve ever told. It’s just that no one likes how it sounds.

The gavel doesn’t move, though Reason’s fingers hover near it.

GUILT: Then tell the court why you appear so often. Why every time he breaks, you’re the first to arrive.

ANGER:
Because you never leave him alone. You whisper should’ve and 
could’ve until he drowns in it. I rise to keep him breathing. You feed on his shame—I burn it before it eats him alive.

A pulse of heat ripples through the room. The light above the stand flickers but doesn’t die.

GUILT: Noble words, coming from the one who’s turned friends to ash—doors splintered, bridges burned, words that hit harder than fists, and the silence after.

ANGER: Enough.

It isn’t a shout; it’s a warning. The walls seem to lean back.

GUILT: You claim to protect him, but all you do is destroy.

ANGER: I destroy what hurts him. Don’t twist it. You’d rather watch him rot quietly so you can call it penance. I tear things down so he can start over. You build cages and call them lessons.

Guilt’s voice sharpens.

GUILT: You’ve hurt the ones he loves.

ANGER: And you’ve made him believe he doesn’t deserve love at all.

The room stirs. Fear can’t look up. Joy trembles. Love covers her mouth.

REASON: Order.

The gavel cracks once—sharp, final—but neither man moves.

GUILT: You think you’re strength itself. You’re just noise.

ANGER: No. I’m proof he’s still alive.

Guilt hesitates, words catching before he finds his voice again.

GUILT: And what happens when the fire burns everything left to save?

Anger says nothing. The silence between them glows hotter than words.

Guilt straightens, forcing his mask of righteousness back on.

GUILT: No further questions, Your Honor.

The room hums again, heavier now—thicker with what hasn’t been said. Reason exhales through his nose, the faintest sign of fatigue.

REASON: Counselor for the Defense, your witness.

Empathy rises slowly, the soft rustle of fabric cutting the silence. Her voice carries warmth, but there’s iron under it.

EMPATHY: Anger, tell us what it costs you to stand guard for him.

Anger’s hands unclench. The heat in his eyes dims to a dull glow.

ANGER: Everything. I get blamed for his pain, but I’m the one who absorbs it. Every insult swallowed, every injustice endured—I carry them all until there’s no room left. Then they call it rage.

EMPATHY: Do you ever wish you could rest?

ANGER: Every day. But rest is a luxury for people who don’t care as much as I do.

The room softens. Even Guilt hesitates—his next note half-written, pen frozen in midair.

Empathy leans forward.

EMPATHY: When you break things, what are you trying to say?

ANGER: That he matters. That something inside him still demands to be seen. Destruction is just a louder form of grief.

EMPATHY: Do you hate him?

Anger laughs—a low, tired sound.

ANGER: Hate him? I am him.

GUILT: Objection!

REASON: On what grounds?

GUILT: Self-incrimination. He’s blurring the line between witness and defendant.

ANGER: The line was blurred long before this trial started. You just liked it better when I was behind bars in his chest.

GUILT: You’re out of order—

ANGER: I am the order. I’m what happens when you push too far for too long.

Empathy steps forward, voice firm but steady.

EMPATHY: Gentlemen—please. This isn’t why we’re here.

But neither of them hears her. Guilt shoots to his feet, papers trembling in his hand.

GUILT: You think fire is justice?! You think rage redeems him?! You’re nothing but noise dressed up as courage.

ANGER: And you’re shame pretending to be conscience. Don’t talk to me about justice—you only exist to keep him small.

GUILT: I exist to keep him from becoming you!

ANGER: Then you’ve already failed!

The lights flare, casting every face in crimson. Fear ducks. Joy covers her ears. Love begins to cry. Empathy’s voice breaks through, desperate now.

EMPATHY: Stop—both of you!

REASON: Enough! Order!

The gavel slams once—then again, louder each time.

The sound collides with the heat until everything shakes.

GUILT: You see, Your Honor? Uncontrolled. Dangerous. Proof of everything I’ve said!

ANGER: Proof that he’s alive! Proof that he still feels!

The gavel strikes again—three times now—each crack sharper, slicing through the chaos.

REASON: That’s enough!

Silence falls like ash. The red light dulls to ember.

Anger stands—steps back from the stand, chest heaving.

He doesn’t look at Reason. He looks at Guilt—measured, unblinking.

ANGER: You don’t get the last word anymore.

He exhales, the fire settling in his chest instead of spilling from it.

ANGER: I wasn’t made to destroy him. I rose to remind him he was still alive.

He glances toward the jury—Fear, Joy, Love, all watching through the haze.

ANGER: I was never chaos—I was the sound of something trying to live. Remember that.

He turns toward the door. The glow follows, fading from red to gold—
the color of something once wild, now finally understood.

When the door closes, the hum that remains feels different— steady, human.

For the first time, silence doesn’t hurt.

---

Act VI —
The Homecoming

The heat Anger left behind doesn’t fade—it settles inside me. The air hums low, no longer warning but remembering. The walls that once felt like judgment just stand quiet now, holding space instead of verdicts.

Reason sits at the bench, hands open, robe heavy across his shoulders. Empathy stands near the Defense table, eyes soft and certain. Guilt doesn’t reach for his notes; he knows there’s nothing left to prove.

REASON: We’ve heard every voice there is to hear.

He looks at me—not the defendant anymore, just me.

REASON: If you have anything left to say, speak it.

I rise. The air moves with me, gentle as breath.

SELF: I came here expecting punishment. To be proven guilty for every failure I couldn’t forget. But all I found were pieces of myself, waiting to be named. Fear kept me breathing. Sadness kept me honest about loss. Love reminded me why I ever tried at all. Guilt tried to keep me from becoming cruel. And Anger—he was the scream no one else could hear.

The light shifts warmer, brushing the room in gold.

SELF: I am not the sum of my damage. I’m the proof that I still feel it. The soul never asked me to be perfect—it asked me to stay.

Reason lowers his eyes. The gavel rests beside his hand, untouched.

REASON: Then what do you seek from this court?

SELF: Nothing you can grant. The trial’s over. The sentence was living through it.

Empathy’s voice carries through the quiet.

EMPATHY: And what will you do now?

SELF: Go home.

The words don’t echo—they settle.

I turn to the jury, to the faces that have lived inside me for so long.

SELF: Fear, you can walk with me, but you don’t get to lead. Sadness, you can rest—you’ve earned it. Love, you don’t have to prove you’re safe anymore. Guilt, you’ve done your job; you can stop counting. And Anger… thank you for keeping the fire lit until I could carry it myself.

None of them vanish. They just breathe again—lighter, human.

The hum softens, no longer mechanical—heartbeat steady, familiar. The air thickens, not with heat now but with pulse. Every sound that once accused me turns softer—the shuffle of paper, the sigh of old wood, the faint creak of chairs that no longer hold judgment. The room isn’t ending; it’s exhaling.

Reason leans back, eyes closing.

REASON: Let the record end where it began—this court finds you human.

He stands, removes the robe, and sets it across the bench like an offering.

REASON: Court is adjourned.

The gavel falls once—soft, certain.

I pass the witness stand and rest my hand on its edge—warm, ordinary. For the first time, I don’t owe it a story, and it doesn’t owe me a verdict.

This isn’t the first time I’ve stood here—just the first time I stayed.

I step forward. The door that once slammed now opens without sound. The hallway beyond glows like dawn through rain. The floorboards breathe under my steps. Light finds my hands where chains used to sit. Behind me, the courtroom fades, but the hum follows—steady, human, mine. Every voice that once testified walks with me—no chains, no verdicts, just company. They don’t follow—they walk beside.

The hum keeps time with my chest, patient and alive.

For the first time, it sounds like home.