The cloak is heavy.

It is wool.

It is blue.

It is yours.

You wear it.

It binds you.

It saves you.

You are seven.

Your name is Elias.

The road is long.

The mist is thick.

You walk.

Your feet hurt.

The stone bites.

The sky is grey.

It hangs low.

It presses down.

You are small.

The world is vast.

You are alone.

You must run.

The bell rings.

It is far.

It is near.

It sounds like a scream.

The village is ahead.

The houses are dark.

The windows are shut.

You see lights.

They flicker.

They dance.

They are false.

You stop.

Your heart beats.

It drums against your ribs.

The cloak pulls tight.

It chokes you.

It holds you.

You are safe.

You are trapped.

A voice calls.

It is soft.

It is kind.

It is a lie.

"Come here, child."

You turn.

A woman stands there.

She is tall.

Her face is pale.

Her eyes are black.

She smiles.

Her teeth are white.

They are sharp.

She holds a staff.

It is wood.

It is black.

She does not move.

You do not move.

The mist swirls.

It hides her feet.

It hides the ground.

You are suspended.

You are in the air.

You are in the dream.

The woman speaks again.

"Take off the cloak."

You shake your head.

No.

It is warm.

It is home.

It is your mother’s skin.

It smells of lavender.

It smells of ash.

It smells of life.

You clutch it.

Your fingers dig in.

The wool tears.

A thread pulls.

It snaps.

A piece falls.

It lands in the mud.

The woman frowns.

Her smile fades.

The air turns cold.

It bites your face.

It freezes your breath.

You see them now.

They are behind her.

The men.

They are silent.

They are tall.

They wear grey.

They carry lanterns.

The light is red.

It paints the mist.

It paints the trees.

The trees are bare.

They look like hands.

They reach for you.

They want to grab you.

They want to pull you down.

You look at the woman.

She is not a woman.

She is a shadow.

She is a hole.

She is the absence of light.

She extends her hand.

Her fingers are long.

They are black.

They tremble.

She wants the cloak.

She wants to own you.

She wants to wear you.

You realize the truth.

The cloak is not yours.

It is not your mother’s.

It is the curse.

It is the cage.

It is the weight that keeps you down.

It is the reason they fear you.

It is the reason they hunt you.

You are not a boy.

You are a vessel.

You are a container for their fear.

The woman steps closer.

The mist thickens.

It covers her eyes.

You cannot see her.

You can only hear her.

"Give it up."

Her voice is wet.

It sounds like water.

It sounds like rot.

You look down.

The cloak is on the ground.

The piece you tore is gone.

The rest is still on you.

It is burning.

It is hot.

It is eating you.

You feel the heat.

It rises up your arms.

It climbs your chest.

It fills your lungs.

You cough.

Smoke comes out.

It is black.

It is thick.

The men step forward.

Their lanterns swing.

The red light flares.

It blinds you.

It burns your retinas.

You see nothing but red.

You feel nothing but heat.

The woman is gone.

The men are gone.

The mist is gone.

You are alone.

The cloak is still there.

It is on your shoulders.

It is heavy.

It is so heavy.

You try to lift it.

You cannot.

It is fused to your skin.

It is part of you.

You scream.

Your voice is loud.

It echoes in the empty air.

It bounces off the trees.

It scares the birds.

The birds fly up.

They are black.

They are many.

They circle you.

They watch you.

They judge you.

You are guilty.

You are wrong.

You are bad.

You did not ask for this.

You did not choose this.

You are just a boy.

You are just a child.

You are just scared.

You want your mother.

You want your bed.

You want your toy horse.

You want to be small.

You want to be safe.

But you are not.

You are the monster.

You are the source of the fear.

You are the thing that drives them away.

You are the reason the village burns.

You are the reason the crops fail.

You are the reason the wells dry up.

You are the blight.

You are the stain.

You cannot wash it off.

You cannot scrub it away.

It is in your blood.

It is in your bones.

It is in your soul.

You look at the cloak.

It is blue.

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

It is the only thing that knows you.

It is the only thing that loves you.

It is the only thing that protects you.

You hug it.

You pull it close.

You bury your face in the wool.

You smell the lavender.

You smell the ash.

You smell the life.

You close your eyes.

You wait for the end.

You wait for the fire.

You wait for the death.

But the fire does not come.

The death does not come.

The mist clears.

The sun rises.

It is a pale white disc.

It hangs in the sky.

It does not warm you.

It does not light you.

It just is.

The men are gone.

The woman is gone.

The village is gone.

The road is empty.

You are still here.

You are still alive.

The cloak is still heavy.

It is still tight.

It is still yours.

You take a step.

Your foot slips.

You fall.

You hit the ground.

The stone hurts.

The grass stings.

You get up.

You brush the dirt off.

The cloak is dirty.

It is stained.

It is ruined.

But it is still there.

You walk on.

The road winds.

It goes up.

It goes down.

It goes left.

It goes right.

It goes nowhere.

It goes everywhere.

You walk.

Your legs ache.

Your back hurts.

Your head throbs.

You do not stop.

You cannot stop.

You must move.

You must breathe.

You must exist.

The cloak whispers.

It speaks to you.

It tells you stories.

It tells you lies.

It tells you the truth.

It says you are free.

It says you are bound.

It says you are nothing.

It says you are everything.

You listen.

You nod.

You understand.

You do not care.

You just walk.

The sun sets.

The moon rises.

It is full.

It is bright.

It reflects on the water.

The water is still.

The water is cold.

You see your reflection.

It is small.

It is dark.

It is you.

It is the cloak.

It is the road.

It is the world.

It is all the same.

You are the same.

You are the same as the stone.

You are the same as the mist.

You are the same as the fear.

You are the same as the silence.

You are the same as the end.

You stop walking.

You stand still.

The cloak hangs down.

It pools at your feet.

It looks like a puddle.

It looks like a shadow.

It looks like a grave.

You look at it.

You look at yourself.

You look at the road.

You see the end.

It is a cliff.

It is a drop.

It is a fall.

It is a jump.

It is a choice.

You can go on.

You can keep walking.

You can keep wearing the weight.

You can keep being the monster.

You can keep being the curse.

Or you can stop.

You can let go.

You can drop the cloak.

You can drop the weight.

You can drop the fear.

You can drop the self.

You can be nothing.

You can be free.

You reach for the cloak.

Your fingers touch the wool.

It is cold.

It is hard.

It is alive.

It resists you.

It pulls back.

It clings to you.

It loves you.

It hates you.

It is you.

You pull.

It tears.

It rips.

It shreds.

It falls.

It drops.

It hits the ground.

It makes a sound.

It is a sigh.

It is a moan.

It is a cry.

It is a death.

You feel the air.

It is cold.

It is sharp.

It is clean.

It is new.

You look down.

You are naked.

You are small.

You are fragile.

You are human.

You are free.

The cloak lies there.

It is blue.

It is torn.

It is dead.

It is gone.

You turn away.

You walk toward the cliff.

The wind blows.

It fills your lungs.

It fills your mind.

It fills your heart.

It is empty.

It is full.

It is light.

It is dark.

It is now.

You step forward.

The ground disappears.

You fall.

The air rushes up.

The sky rushes down.

The world rushes in.

You are falling.

You are flying.

You are dancing.

You are singing.

You are laughing.

You are crying.

You are alive.

You are dead.

You are free.

The cloak is below you.

It is a speck.

It is a dot.

It is a memory.

It is a mistake.

It is a lesson.

It is a lie.

You look up.

The stars are out.

They are bright.

They are many.

They are infinite.

You are small.

You are one.

You are alone.

You are everything.

The wind takes you.

The wind holds you.

The wind carries you.

You are gone.

You are here.

You are free.

The cost was you.

The price was your soul.

The payment was your self.

The freedom was your death.

The life was your end.

The beginning was your finish.

The end was your start.

The cloak is gone.

You are gone.

The road remains.

The mist remains.

The silence remains.

The truth remains.

It is simple.

It is hard.

It is true.

You are free.

You are paid.

You are gone.