I can see the sunlight bouncing off the surface of the liquid. Dark, brooding, like Chopin, like a cello. If I choose to be a color, this would be it. I would be this very hue; strong and rich and smooth like satin. I would choose to be deep and hazy, like the night sky at the edge of the city, like a woman's perfume.

The liquid's faultless surface dips down in the middle, reminding me of glass vials and black countertops and fluorescent lights. What is that called? The meniscus?

And then it hits me all at once: the sorrow, the nausea, the regret.

Sometimes I don't like myself very much.

Rend your hearts, not your garments.

The room spins violently.

My heart breaks.

I deserve this.

I have earned this.

Every tear is mine to cry.

An eternity in hell is a small price to pay.

Hope dissolves.

I shudder.

But then I hear it. Or feel it, maybe, moving down my spine in a shiver and resonating in my abdomen like a church bell, like restoration.

"This is My blood, shed for you."

I cling to the goosebumps and surrender to the tears.

I swear there is music, too sweet for these ears and too jubilant for this heart.