Antagonist

Chapter one: The End.

It's been long since I ditched the urban life, and as a budding writer, potentially a promising one the metropolis just wasn't my rhythm.My ambitions outgrew me. With its flaunting structures, shopping arcades and those fancy therapy sessions, 'time' moved like a violent blaze through the sole of our civilization attacking every reason that we stand for.

So I moved to the country. Took up a job at the light house, bought myself a horse and spent my days appreciating the majestic horizon trying to find an inspiration for my novel.

It was all smooth until this 'jerk' showed up, probably envious of my perfect life he decided of wrecking it.

He'ld show up and throw rocks at my cottage window right after I changed its tainted glasses or would break into my house and tear through my months of work, no matter how many locks I replaced. Never saw him clearly but caught a few dark glimpses sometimes.

My luck seemingly changed its loyalty, for EVERYTIME any good would happen, I could be almost sure that this guy will show up and pull me down to the depths of hell, right where I started. It felt like each time I jumped across an unpleasant puddle there was a bottomless pit awaiting my course. But this time I have had it enough. This week, I found myself awake on the porch and beside me was my horse who felt like a cold carcass, barely alive. It must have been the guy who did this. Seeing how much I enjoyed the company of my pet he thought of stripping it away.

I had to do something about the guy. He needed to be stopped. I set up a trap. I didn't know much about the man except that he took an unfathomable interest in my life whenever I was happy, so the only way to make him show up was to achieve a victory and then wait like a soldier.

My horse had hurt himself pretty bad. With my exhausting funds, even the local vet had given up hope and scheduled for putting him down. What could be a better victory than getting him back from the dead, having him sprinting like a pony. So I tended to his wounds. I had to give my best. I had to get him on his knees. Every effort I made had to be perfect for it was fuelled by revenge to the last drop.

Few weeks passed. This one morning I returned from my daily errands and sat by the door, feeding the horse. A shrivel of proud ran through me looking at how the animal had recovered in the past weeks. I checked for my dagger, kept hidden in my pocket because I never knew when the guy will show up. It was there, safely tucked. I don't exactly remember what happened next, but maybe sitting there the nature's ambiance I passed out.

The autumn wind brushed passed my face. Darkness. Silence. What was this feeling? Numbness. I forced my eyes open and tried to regain control of my body. My head was throbbing. I could smell the damp wood from under the door.

My hands felt strangely moist. Wait. I stood alarmed. Was this blood ? I turned and saw the horse moaning silently in agonizing pain. Prominent scars stretched across his body.

He had been wounded. My dagger was lying a few feet away. I should have ran to my horse and looked after his wounds, but all I did was stand there. A thousand thoughts ran through my head. And as baffling as it was, I felt scared and thrilled at the same time. The pain in my head sored to a new high. How did he get in? What did he stab with. Was it my dagger?* Did I do it myself?* Wait. What? That dosen't make sence. I looked within the mirror before me. There was blood. My shirt stained of beet and smelled of guilt. I looked into my eyes . They stared back, strangely unfamiliar.

"I know what you're thinking". I heard a voice . "where are you, you coward" I shouted back looking for him.

"yes, it was you"

"you're searching too far. Try looking inside".He spoke again. That didn't make sence. I looked into the mirror and saw the figure getting personified. I stared into his face.

"It has been you all this while." It said.

"shut up you psychopath. You don't exist." I retorted. "why in devil's name will I harm myself"

"Think about it." It said as calmly as one can." When was the last time you talked to a friend, or even had one. When was the last time that you socialized. A failed writer deserted by society." He stared back. "You had to do something about it. So you did what every struggling writer hopelessly lost into fantasies and desperate to publish one does. You crafted a story right out of your own life."

There was an ugly pause. As scared as I felt, somewhere inside things started falling into places. How much sence would it make if i was doing this to myself all along.

Although this did not make me any less angry to the thing in front of me.

"So you mean I did this to myself?!" I shouted."Hurt my own horse?"" Do I look crazy to you?!"

" What you "look" is for others to judge" he said motionlessly" but what you 'are' or 'not' does'nt depend on what they perceive. You ran away from everything that made you a slave. You escaped that asylum because you wanted to be free, you wanted to feel safe. But tell me, how do you run from what's inside your head?

Felt my hands shake, wanted to ask so much. "Who was he? When did this start? And why did he had to step in?" But the only word that could make out was – "why?"

"why? You ask", he spoke so low that it could almost have been a whisper. "you wanted to break free. You knew what had to be done,but could never bring yourself to do it so you invented me. The antagonist, the sidekick whatever you needed to push the plot forward.I did what I did, so you woudn't have to."

NO! – I shaked.

He spoke again," Even the caged bird sings. Without any consept of freedom. Missing out the best."

"how does it matter if the bird dosen't know its caged" I screamed."I dint care about freedom".

He let out a smile so pure and innocent that it was almost wicked.

What's funny? I asked.

"you think you are the bird."

"What?"

You, sir are the cage. My cage"

I never thought I'ld meet an evil man in this parts of the town. Maybe I was right. Here I was face to face with a large wild animal. I sighed . I should have seen this coming.

"So what next? "

"You put me inside a flesh that is dying. Like a ghost that wanders with no purpose. You could have been anything. You could have taken over the world for all you knew ,but you stuck to being a plain old underdog. You were just a weak retard." His words pierced like a sharp needle.

"Don't" I screamed. My face was suddenly deranged, ghostly as though I was in as much pain as the yelping, growling horse lying behind,in the pool of it's own blood."Call me retard".

" I might not be where I wanted to be" I clenched the dagger in my hand, " but I sure as hell ain't no retard".

"Then prove it!" he said.

"how?"

"How else do you think imbecile. You're a writer. You can't leave a story incomplete can you? Complete the story! Complete the story you fool! "

The phrase rang in my head like thousands of cathedral bells. I knelt to the floor and held up my horse into my lap. " Is this what it feels like? To go crazy?" I was not scarred any more. Angry? Maybe. But strangely so, relieved. Did I start seeking comfort in chaos.

I turned to the window, and saw the blue ocean turning red.

Maybe this was all true. And maybe, just maybe I did start serenading myself from this 'symphony of chaos' as it was. But that's pointless now. Now all that matters is to complete the story." I closed my fist against the dagger and looked down." To have the perfect ending where perfection was defined by the amount of pain, the reader sees you in. Now all that matters, is to prove them that I am not the retard they said I was."

Because atleast now, I have a story to tell.