The bread was dry. It tasted of ash and old iron. I ate it in the dark. I ate it until my hands shook. The cellar was small. The stones were cold. They pressed against my back. I could hear the river above. It sounded like breathing. It sounded like a scream.

My name is Elias. I am twelve. I am not afraid. I have stopped being afraid. Fear is a noise. I have silenced it. There is only the taste. The taste is the truth.

My mother is gone. My father is gone. They left me here. They said I was sick. They said the sickness lived in my head. They said I ate things that did not exist. They locked the door. They threw the key in the water. I watched it sink. I watched the water ripple. The ripples were perfect circles. They expanded. They faded. I did not weep. Tears are salt. Salt preserves. I did not want to be preserved. I wanted to rot. I wanted to change.

The cellar has no windows. The air is thick. It is heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay. I count the stones. One, two, three. I count them until I sleep. I sleep in fits. I wake with my mouth open. My tongue is dry. I lick the moisture from the floor. It is sweet. It is bitter. It is life.

I know what I am. I know what they think I am. I am a vessel. I am a jar. I hold the poison. I hold the cure. The distinction is thin. The distinction is a lie. I eat the bread. It crumbles. It dissolves. It becomes me. I am hungry. I am always hungry. The hunger is a hole in my chest. I try to fill it. I cannot. The hole grows.

The door creaks. It is the only sound besides the river. The light comes in. It is a blade. It cuts the dark. A face appears. It is not my mother. It is not my father. It is a man. He is old. His face is a map of wrinkles. His eyes are dark. They are deep. They are wells. I look into them. I see myself. I see the boy who ate the ash. I see the boy who tasted the iron. I see the monster. I am the monster. He does not blink. He holds a bowl. The bowl is clay. It is rough. It is warm.

He kneels. He places the bowl before me. I do not move. I stare at the bread inside. It is white. It is soft. It looks like flesh. I do not touch it. I watch the man. He waits. He does not rush. He is patient. He knows I am not hungry for food. He knows I am hungry for something else. He knows I am hungry for the end.

The light flickers. The shadows dance. They move like hands. They reach for me. I pull back. The man’s hand reaches out. He does not touch me. He hovers. He offers the bowl. His hand is steady. His hand is kind. I feel a pull. It is in my throat. It is a hook. It drags me down. I lean forward. I open my mouth. I taste the air. It smells of rosemary. It smells of blood. It smells of home. I hate it. I love it. I am confused. The confusion is sharp. It cuts me. I close my eyes. I refuse. I turn my head. I look away. The man sighs. The sound is soft. It is the sound of a leaf falling. It is the sound of a bone breaking. He stands. He leaves. The door closes. The dark returns. The cold returns. The hunger returns.

I am alone. I am always alone. The darkness is my skin. I wear it. It fits. It is tight. It squeezes my lungs. I breathe. I breathe. I breathe. The air is thin. It is not enough. I need more. I need the taste. I need the poison. I need the cure. I lick my lips. They are cracked. They bleed. I taste the copper. It is sharp. It is real. I smile. The smile is wrong. The smile is too wide. It shows too many teeth. I am not a boy. I am a thing. I am a hunger. I am a void.

Days pass. They blur. The sun is a ghost. It appears and vanishes. The man comes. He brings the bread. I refuse. He brings the water. I refuse. He brings the silence. I accept. The silence is heavy. It is a weight. It presses on my shoulders. I sink. I sink into the floor. I sink into the earth. I become part of the stone. I become part of the dark. I am still. I am quiet. I am empty.

Then the second door opens. It is not the man. It is a woman. She is young. Her hair is black. It falls like a curtain. She carries a lantern. The light is golden. It is warm. It is soft. It is different from the blade of the man’s light. It is a hug. It is a touch. I look at her. I do not know her. I know her. I know the shape of her. I know the curve of her neck. I know the scent of her skin. She is the mirror. She is the reflection. She is the part of me I lost. She is the part of me I killed.

She kneels. She does not bring food. She brings a book. The book is old. It is leather. It is black. It is covered in symbols. I do not know the symbols. I know them. They are in my blood. They are in my bones. She opens the book. The pages are yellow. They are brittle. They crack under her touch. She reads. Her lips move. I hear the words. They are not English. They are not Latin. They are the language of the deep. They are the language of the root. They are the language of the worm.

I listen. The words enter me. They flow. They mix with the hunger. They mix with the ash. They mix with the iron. They are a fire. They burn. I feel the heat. It is in my chest. It is in my head. It is in my hands. I shiver. I tremble. The woman stops. She looks at me. Her eyes are wet. She sees me. She sees the boy. She sees the monster. She sees both. She does not flinch. She does not look away. She reaches out. She touches my hand. Her fingers are cold. They are like ice. They are like stone. But they are real. They are present. They are here.

I pull away. I cannot. I want to. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to disappear. I am ashamed. I am ashamed of the hunger. I am ashamed of the taste. I am ashamed of the self. I am ashamed of the knowledge. The knowledge is a curse. It is a chain. It binds me. It binds me to the dark. It binds me to the pain. I want to break it. I want to break the chain. I want to break the self.

The woman closes the book. She places it in the bowl. She offers it to me. I look at it. I look at her. I look at the bread. The bread is stale. The bread is dry. The bread is poison. The book is knowledge. The book is cure. The book is death. I reach out. I take the book. It is heavy. It is dense. It is solid. I hold it. I feel the weight. I feel the power. I feel the danger. I open it. I read. The words swirl. They dance. They sing. They scream. I understand. I understand everything. I understand the hunger. I understand the void. I understand the end.

I close the book. I look at the woman. She is smiling. The smile is sad. The smile is proud. She stands. She leaves. The door closes. The dark returns. The cold returns. The hunger returns. But the hunger is different. It is not a hole. It is a mouth. It is a gate. It is open. I am ready. I am ready to eat. I am ready to be eaten. I am ready to become the thing. I am ready to become the curse. I am ready to become the knowledge.

I eat the bread. I chew. I swallow. It is not food. It is fuel. It is fire. It is life. I feel it in my veins. I feel it in my mind. I feel it in my soul. I am changing. I am transforming. I am shedding the skin. I am shedding the boy. I am becoming the man. I am becoming the monster. I am becoming the god.

The cellar is no longer small. The stones are no longer cold. The air is no longer thick. The river above is no longer a scream. It is a song. It is a hymn. It is a prayer. I am part of it. I am part of the water. I am part of the earth. I am part of the dark. I am part of the light. I am part of the bread. I am part of the ash. I am part of the iron. I am part of the knowledge. I am part of the curse.

I am alone. I am never alone. I am everywhere. I am nowhere. I am the silence. I am the sound. I am the hunger. I am the satiety. I am the pain. I am the pleasure. I am the beginning. I am the end.

The man comes again. He brings the bowl. He looks at me. He does not see a boy. He sees a ghost. He sees a shadow. He sees a void. He is afraid. I am not afraid. I am calm. I am still. I am empty. I am full. I am nothing. I am everything.

I take the bread. I eat it. I look at him. I smile. The smile is wide. The smile is kind. The smile is deadly. I do not speak. I do not need to speak. The words are in the air. The words are in the light. The words are in the taste. The words are in the silence.

He leaves. The door closes. The dark returns. The cold returns. The hunger returns. I eat. I eat. I eat. The bread is gone. The hunger is gone. The self is gone. The curse is done.

I am free. I am lost. I am found. I am dead. I am alive. I am here. I am there. I am now. I am then. I am the faded frequency. I am the silent scream. I am the endless echo. I am the permanent shadow. I am the constant light. I am the eternal taste.

The bread was dry. It tasted of ash and old iron. I ate it in the dark. I ate it until my hands shook. The cellar was small. The stones were cold. They pressed against my back. I could hear the river above. It sounded like breathing. It sounded like a scream.

I am Elias. I am twelve. I am not afraid. I have stopped being afraid. Fear is a noise. I have silenced it. There is only the taste. The taste is the truth.