The collar of my tunic is frayed.

It used to be stiff. Now it is soft. It has absorbed my sweat. It has absorbed my blood. It smells of the damp stone and the rot of the dungeon floor. I touch it. It is mine. It is the only thing left that is truly mine. The rest is the King’s. The rest is the Church’s. The rest is the war’s.

I am Edward. I was a captain. I am a prisoner.

The cell is small. The air is thick. It tastes of iron and old fear. I do not look at the door. I look at the tunic. I pull the threads. I unravel the hem. It is a slow process. It is a good process. It keeps my hands busy. It keeps my mind from screaming.

The war is over. They say so. The bells in the city rang for three days. I did not hear them. I was here. In the dark. The victory is not for me. The victory is for the men who survived. The victory is for the men who stayed home. I am the cost. I am the price paid in wool and skin.

A light appears in the keyhole.

It is thin. It is cold. It cuts across the floor.

I know that light.

It is Thomas.

Thomas was my friend. We drank together. We swore oaths. We held hands before the battle. I trusted him. I gave him my sword. I gave him my name.

He is here to kill me.

Or so I thought.

The door opens. The hinges scream. A sound like a dying beast.

Thomas stands in the doorway. He is clean. He is dressed in fine silk. He smells of perfume and victory. He looks at me. He does not look with hate. He looks with pity. Pity is worse than hate. Pity is the knife that cuts deep without breaking the skin.

He steps inside. He does not draw a weapon. He carries a box. It is small. It is made of wood. It is painted black.

He places it on the stone floor.

He sits on the bench opposite me. The bench is cold. He does not seem to care.

I stare at the box.

I stare at him.

He is a traitor. I know this. I have always known this. In the silence of the cell, the truth has grown like a tumor. It has eaten my hope. It has eaten my anger. It has left only this. This empty space. This hollow ache.

He did not tell me about the trap. He did not warn me. He let them take me. He let them break my hands. He let them strip me of my rank. He let me rot.

Why is he here?

He opens the box.

Inside is a tunic.

It is white. It is pristine. It is made of the finest linen. It has no fraying. It has no stains. It is a symbol of purity. It is a symbol of innocence. It is a lie.

He holds it up.

He shows it to me.

I look away.

I look at my own tunic. The one I am wearing. The one that is frayed. The one that is stained. The one that is real.

I do not want the white tunic.

I want my own.

I want the pain. I want the wear. I want the proof that I lived. That I fought. That I bled.

The white tunic is for the victors. It is for the men who did not go to war. It is for the men who stayed clean. It is a shroud. It is a cover for the dead.

I am not dead.

I am not clean.

I am Edward.

Thomas sees my face. He understands. He does not speak. He is a man of few words now. He is a man of many deeds. He is a man who has sold his soul for power. And he is happy. He is so happy. It is disgusting.

He closes the box.

He stands up.

He looks at me one last time.

His eyes are soft.

He leaves.

The door slams. The lock engages. The sound is final.

I am alone again.

The darkness returns.

The cold returns.

The silence returns.

I touch my tunic.

The frayed collar.

The stained hem.

I feel the roughness of the wool. I feel the grit of the dirt. I feel the heat of my own body.

It is mine.

I am not free.

But I am not clean.

And that is enough.

No.

It is not enough.

I am a fool.

I am a self-deceiver.

I told myself I wanted the pain. I told myself the pain was my identity. I told myself the wear was my worth.

But I am lying.

I want to be free.

I want to be clean.

I want to be white.

The white tunic is not a lie. It is a promise. It is a possibility. It is the door out.

Thomas knows this.

That is why he is here.

He is not a traitor.

He is a savior.

He is the only one who sees me. He is the only one who offers me a way out.

I must take it.

I must wear it.

I must become white.

I must become pure.

I must become free.

I look at the door.

I look at the floor.

The box is gone.

Thomas took it with him.

I am left with nothing.

I am left with my tunic.

My frayed, stained, ugly tunic.

I pull at the threads.

I unravel the hem.

I unravel the cuff.

I unravel the collar.

The wool gives way. It turns into a cloud. A grey, dirty cloud. It drifts around me. It covers me. It suffocates me.

I am drowning in my own filth.

I am drowning in my own truth.

The war is over.

The war is inside me.

It is a war of wills.

It is a war of images.

It is a war of self.

I am the prisoner.

I am the jailer.

I am the key.

And I have thrown it away.

I sit in the dark.

I wait for the light.

I wait for the door.

I wait for Thomas.

But he will not come.

He has given me what I wanted.

He has given me my freedom.

He has given me my choice.

And I have chosen to stay.

I have chosen to stay in the dark.

I have chosen to stay in the dirt.

I have chosen to stay in the pain.

Because the pain is real.

Because the pain is mine.

Because the pain is the only thing that is not a lie.

The white tunic is a dream.

It is a fantasy.

It is a trap.

If I wear it, I am dead.

If I am dead, I am free.

But I am not free.

I am alive.

And being alive is a burden.

Being alive is a wound.

Being alive is a frayed collar.

I touch it.

I feel the roughness.

I feel the grit.

I feel the heat.

I am here.

I am Edward.

I am not Thomas.

I am not the King.

I am not the Church.

I am not the war.

I am the man in the cell.

I am the man in the tunic.

I am the man in the dark.

And the dark is mine.

The dark is my home.

The dark is my freedom.

I close my eyes.

I open my mouth.

I scream.

The sound is small.

The sound is wet.

The sound is human.

It echoes off the stone.

It bounces back at me.

It is my voice.

It is my name.

It is my life.

I am not free.

I am not clean.

I am not white.

I am grey.

I am dirty.

I am here.

The bell rings in the distance.

It is the midnight bell.

It is the bell of the city.

It is the bell of the living.

I do not answer it.

I do not move.

I sit in the dark.

I hold my tunic.

I hold my pain.

I hold my life.

It is heavy.

It is warm.

It is mine.

The light from the keyhole fades.

The night deepens.

The cold bites.

I do not shiver.

I am numb.

I am still.

I am free.

No.

I am not free.

I am trapped.

I am trapped in my own skin.

I am trapped in my own mind.

I am trapped in my own story.

And the story is not over.

The story is just beginning.

I will not end it.

I will not clean it.

I will not fix it.

I will live it.

I will wear it.

I will be it.

The frayed collar.

The stained hem.

The dirty wool.

The real man.

The true man.

The free man.

In the dark.

In the cell.

In the pain.

I am free.

I am free.

I am free.

The words repeat.

They are a mantra.

They are a prayer.

They are a lie.

But they are my lie.

And my lie is my truth.

And my truth is my freedom.

And my freedom is my prison.

And my prison is my home.

And my home is my soul.

And my soul is my tunic.

And my tunic is my life.

And my life is my death.

And my death is my birth.

And my birth is my beginning.

And my beginning is now.

Now.

Now.

Now.

I open my eyes.

The dark is still there.

The cold is still there.

The pain is still there.

But I am still here.

And that is enough.

That is more than enough.

That is everything.

I touch the collar.

I pull the thread.

It breaks.

I drop it.

I am done.

I am done.

I am done.