Animus

PROLOGUE

I cannot explain the reason why I write stories. It’s something I do, and I cannot attest to enjoy it, but I write.

I am unable to complete a single story; a sensitive man, my emotions wear heavy, my heart suspended by guilt, for my stories lead me into anxiety and confusion, tampers with my senses as I become somebody else, unidentifiable to my natural personality… a madman, the only word I can describe myself during my writing periods. But still, I write… and I cannot explain why.

Furthermore, I can never refine my characters far beyond their raw personalities, whom become faint sketches of people I love and loath. I can confirm I am emotionally bound to my stories and characters to the extreme, to my past which weighs on me and has caused my becoming mostly detached from present and physical reality.

I once led a normal life which was typically rewarding. But circumstances and events altered my path, and most vitally, transformed me, personally, into what I am today, far from improvement, and, as a result… I endure life inside a prison cell.

CHAPTER 1

The First and the Other sat on a pile of manuscripts in a file cabinet drawer. They were merely characters whom appeared in several partly written stories, so one might assume they did not exist because they were created merely as ideas. Yes, it is true, a character is an idea, whether it is developed for fiction or from actual people. On paper, they do not exist, at least not how we presume existence… breathing, eating, living out the day to day, is only depicted by the one who tells their tales.

But on another hand, they do exist, the personal reality of those who create them. Sometimes, rarely, for few writers… a character, or characters can become consequently life-like, reality becomes difficult to decipher for these writers. The characters they create appear as real as any living person.

So, continuing this story… these two characters sat in the file cabinet drawer which belonged to the First, where his current story was stored. The Other and his current story belonged to a different file cabinet, but the Other often visited the First in his cabinet drawer… his friend.

The character’s resembled people, but appeared underdeveloped and unrefined, mostly in the features of their faces, which lacked certain general and essential qualities and often appeared smudged as if they had been erased several times. And the stories written were never finished, although the scenes and visual landscapes appeared more refined, but the storylines were either inconsistent, or simply left unfinished.

The silence between the two characters continued until footsteps were heard outside the room, the Writer’s office where the file cabinets were stored, and near the hallway, the stairs.

The First tilted his head upwards in reminiscence. It’s her. I remember her footsteps. We used to climb those stairs together.

But she is dead. He killed her off during one of his most intriguing stories, before the story trailed off and left unfinished. Besides, if she were still living, how could you remember her by her footsteps and identify her from another character? asked the Other. You have dwelled within this drawer and locked within this room several years, since he shelved you. In the meantime, he has continued to develop new characters. It could be somebody else.

Because I know her well, replied the First. He created her when still working on me. He once experimented by placing us in a short story together, but he had not been pleased. He tossed the story in the bin, unfinished… like all others. And… she is not dead. Not truly. He revisits her often, as if in memory, in several of his new stories. He cannot let her go.

Oh? replied the Other, as if this this was new knowledge.

Like you and I, she remains unfinished, but unlike us, he cannot use her sparingly. Whenever he gets stuck, he returns to her beginning where she climbs stairs, for the stairs is where she always begins, his interpretation of life’s new beginning, and where she meets her end, to Illustrate those whom are close to his heart never stray afar. She has never descended the stairs, not completely.

Why not? the Other asked.

I presume it is meant to be symbolic in his high regard for her. She must had been developed after somebody he held dear; a loved one, perhaps deceased.

This is a sad notion.

Yes, but it is necessary for some to dwell in the past rather than to move forward, the First, gravely. "For some people, if they move on, they lose touch with themselves, which can create an identity crisis and set course a dangerous path. I know this. The Writer once portrayed me a character of such proportions. My character in that story, on its own could only be described a ‘Nightmare.’"

Do you dwell in the past, or have you moved on? the Other asked.

I dwell, the First sighed. As do you. There is nothing to move on to when crammed in a cabinet. Besides, I often look back at the brief time when placed alongside her.

The Other smiled. He thought it funny whenever the First talked serious, and somewhat mysterious as in this moment. What’s her name, again?

Her name is Mae.

The name bears beauty in its simplicity, the Other added.

The First nodded in agreement.

What did she look like? Pretty? The Other, curious.

"She is beautiful; raven-colored hair, pale smooth skin, and dark freckles cover her face and much of her body. But her appearance can alter slightly, sometimes in the same story depending on the Writer’s mood and ever-changing taste. She could be tall or short, or in-between. The last time I saw her, rather plump. And she took on several personality changes, as well; from sweet and kind, to vicious and vindictive, all depending on what he felt for her during each story, and the passing moments within them. He kept her somewhat unrefined, and undefined, just as you and me, but more progressed than we are. I am still unsure of what I truly look like, or what I should look like. He is a bad writer, too unsure of himself, delusional, and has consumed nearly all of me."

He is a bad writer, and you’re a strange looking character, the Other replied.

The First ignored him, thought of the short story of he and Mae. "The Writer never gave the story a title, just like every story he ever worked on."

Should we name it? the Other asked.

The First was caught off guard and felt himself suddenly pale. "How could we? He is the Writer and we are merely failed examples of his creations." But nevertheless, the First wondered at the prospect.

A high-pitched creaking noise arose from the outside of the cabinet, the door to the study. He, the Writer entered the room for another unfulfilled day. The Writer never appeared the happiest of people, but his stories, although they always contained an edge, used to hold a balance between happiness and sadness, hope and sorrow, but his stories lately, as in the last couple years, had become consistently depressing and quite horrific, and his drinking more excessive than before. The First and the Other went silent. The Other left the First’s cabinet drawer to return to his own and drift back into the manuscript he belonged to.

The First decided not to return to the story he belonged to yet and lay there and wondered why the Writer writes. It never amounted to anything, never would, nor would the Writer stop. Did he have hope at success, delusional even? Had it been mere habit? It could not had been a hobby. The Writer often miserable, breeched madness; fits of rage, tormented, talked to himself, and turned violent during his writing sessions. Something more personal… something deeper? Something so deep the Writer himself could not fathom, but felt in his bones? In the end, it didn’t matter, the First concluded. In the end, the Writer would be viewed a failure. It was inevitable. A failure is a failure.

The First pondered the idea the Other proposed. The idea to name the story of he and Mae seemed preposterous, but he mused at the prospect. And he daydreamed of what he would be like and look like further developed. A well-rounded character, he assumed, and he resented the Writer for not finishing him. The Writer never would. The First, the first character the Writer attempted to develop, often referred to the First as Shawn in the stories the Writer placed him in, but he never knew his real name, and never satisfied with Shawn. He would had liked to name himself, and the title to the story of he and Mae. But underdeveloped, as well as a mere character, he did not contain the power or mind. Or did he? Like the Writer, he was created, too, but arrived in the world out of imagination, rather than through a birth canal. So, why couldn’t the First write and finish his own story? Perhaps, make him less miserable? He never wrote before, did not know how. What if he were to fail? The thought of bearing the kind of madness the Writer assumed frightened the First beyond reason.

He let the idea go, settled back into the unfinished story he dwelled in. The story, not a bad beginning, but after the first three chapters lost its touch and enthusiasm. The Writer became exhausted during the process, uninspired. The Writer often lost interest in what he presently worked on for another interest, and the new interest would normally be her, referred to as Mae, and she would walk up a set of stairs’ until she would disappear or fall, and the story taper off, or halt.

In the story the First long dwelled in… sitting on a boulder, the edge of a large hill over vast scenery the Writer beautifully portrayed. The First had no idea where geographically, one in a billion places, but it didn’t matter. He, the character he portrayed felt at peace after considerable struggle. His wife in the story, murdered, caused him to seek vengeance. He met another woman, Irene, whom the Writer forced the First to appear to fall in love with. He had not… yet, but his dependence on her developed into a kind of fondness. She displayed tranquility in the wake of chaos, and vice versa. But the chaos ensued beyond repair. Irene held onto a dark secret and purpose… truly evil. The First dreaded the remainder of the story written, its abrupt spin before its abrupt end… without conclusion. But he endured. It was where he must dwell; his life without Mae.

The Writer was on the outside of the file cabinet, banging on walls, objects crashing, a few screams. The Writer could not withstand the stress brought on by self-pressure, to write, finish a quality story, and for this, the First sympathized. He too knew what it felt like, unable to finish, for he had been created, an extension of the Writer, and whatever the Writer felt, whatever he did, whatever he was, were bits and pieces given to the First, and on this note the First decided to finish his own story as a way for the Writer to gain peace of mind, assuming the Writer felt anything the First felt which might had been obtained on the First’s own accord. But nevertheless, the First might find peace for himself… he hoped.

He waited, the Other reappeared, a pleasant character, his best friend, caught up in an unpleasant story, the First assumed, for the Other often reappeared anxious, irritated, and traumatized whenever he returned, but the First’s presence quieted him. The First was unaware of the plot of the Other’s story. The Other never discussed it, but the First assumed the story was deeply affected by the Writer’s drinking binge’s, which lent many stories a dark and unpleasant atmosphere. But the Other, called James, would quickly recover, as if he never experienced the story in the first place; an adaptable character, the Other, a quality the First admired.

The First was about to inform the Other he decided to name the story of he and Mae, although the story had been disposed of long before. But then, every additional character began to arise from numerous unfinished stories and the cabinet’s quite crammed. There, a vast assortment of character’s, the First did not trust most because every character desired their own story be finished and would presumably sabotage other characters for a glimmer of hope, and the First decided to keep silent until safe to divulge.

The First observed them, friendship’s, romance’s and conflicts. Many did not belong to the same story and realized every character the Writer attempted to develop lived their own lives, in and out of their own stories, with or without the Writer’s influence. And he thought of he and the Other, friendship and conversations, lived their separate story outside their own respected storyline’s without having realized it. Perhaps, it is what a story is, involved in a certain life, lifestyles deeply ingrained, and each person, or character, rarely considers it a story without focus of retrospect. It was simply life.

After some chaos, additional characters began to settle as many returned to their cabinet’s and into their own manuscript’s, and the First now spoke to the Other, informed him he considered to name his and Mae’s story. I want the title to be perfect, but I have never named a story and I assume it difficult, and unsure if I have the capacity to name it.

The Other yawned, recovering from exhaustion the story he returned from caused him, Well, if you of all characters cannot name it, and perfectly, then it would not be worth naming at all.

This is true, the First said deeply.

And perhaps… you should finish the story, as well. Or, you could rewrite the entire story in your own words, your own story; how you believe it should be told, the Other, hesitant.

The First was taken aback, silent. He never heard the Other suggest such an unconventional idea.

I can understand. I have been thinking of finishing my own story, as well, said the Other, empathetically. Considering it is one thing, but the reality…

But… how can I write it without… her.

Recreate her.

Recreate her? Surely, I could not. Besides, even if I knew how to, she is dead

"But the Writer recreates her time and time again. You said it yourself," the Other, matter of fact. Besides, you were as close to her as he is, if not closer, for you were contained together in a sacred realm in which he could never fully exist in.

Perhaps you’re right, the First, somewhat proudly. But initially, I must finish creating my appearance. I had always been ashamed to look at her in the eye with this face.

Then it’s done, the Other said with glee. But before you do that, why don’t you give the story a title. It would be a good starting point and may also give you a sense of direction and accomplishment.

The First took a deep breath. "Reimagine Mae, I’ll name it."

Perfect. Now you can finish your face, and then you can reimagine her. Reimagine Mae.

CHAPTER 2

The First imagined a mirror, it appeared before him and seemed to float on air, but this troubled him, and he conceived it a stand. The mirror, a rectangle, contained no frame, but stood on two legs of black industrial plastic. He did not intend it to look as it did, he simply imagined it, without refinement. With practice, he would be better able to hone this craft.

The Other appeared awed by what he witnessed. How on earth did you do that?!! he shouted.

I simply thought it up and this appeared. Replied the First.

How did you know to do this?

I didn’t. It was as if out of instinct, the First, coolly.

Instinct? the Other, in doubt.

Is this not what a writer does? He imagines his story and records them on pages? Perhaps, because I am merely a character, my story may not need to be written, but merely imagined since I am purely imagined mused the First.

Yes, of course. I have never thought of this before, but it makes much sense. I can see a character can only imagine… thus, will never truly become a true writer.

Look around in this cabinet drawer, replied the First. "Observe all his poorly written, unfinished stories and tell me the Writer is a true writer. How could I be any worse?"

The Other did not respond.

The First thrived on newfound confidence, turned his attention to the mirror, searched deep within it. Now to clean up this mess. My face is horrid!

It is a bit frightening, replied the Other.

You could use some help, yourself! shouted the First.

At least I have some features.

All the Writer’s characters were unrefined, although most were decent sketches. But the First near featureless. There appeared slight definitions where features would otherwise be placed, and the First felt the Writer ashamed of him, and resented the Writer for causing him to feel this way. But it did appear as if the Writer made several attempts to refine him, but clouded and smeared, heavily contorted, and in a strange way appeared the First was meant to be the exact silhouette of the Writer, if only he were better defined.

The Other seemed about to say something, but the First hushed him. The only face he could think to imagine was the face of the Writer, and this mortified him. He did not want to look like the Writer, resented the Writer, and realized how ashamed he felt of the Writer and of himself, too. The Writer often displeased the First, but he could not imagine why he would be ashamed of him. He wished the Writer never existed, and regretful for thinking it.

The Other asked if something was wrong. The First took a deep breath and turned to the Other, whom fell backward in shock… the First, the exact image of the Writer.

CHAPTER 3

The First sat on the edge of a pile of manuscripts and waited for his own story to come to mind. This, the only way he could think to develop it, not knowing how to begin, for he never utilized creativity before, but dwelled within the Writer’s vision and never experienced ample development in character or storyline. He swam in a sea of angst and boredom because of it. He bore a bit of anger as he pondered this, having been neglected so long and felt as if irrelevant, without a voice to disagree.

Although created merely out of a person’s mind, he had been born, in a sense. Although only a character, he instinctively thought this made him no different than any living person, born without a choice, yet, comprised of limitations a real person does not carry. He had been guided through with the perspectives of somebody misguided, the Writer. But the First considered there are actual people whom experience life similarly.

The First, just as human as anybody else, except he never had hopes or dreams until now, and for some reason it made his existence seem more complicated and somewhat unpleasant, as if unfulfilled and unsure if that void could ever be satisfied.

He continued to wait for his mind to imagine and begin his story, but nothing happened. He became agitated. Should he begin where the story Writer first developed him or somewhere else? He felt overwhelmed with questions, pressure, his uncertainty about to swallow him whole.

And he envisioned the Writer sitting at his desk with a bottle of whisky, as he would wait for his muse to appear out of thin air, day in and day out and wait, without progress. The Writer seldom moved, sat still, could never finish a story, and the First thought it to be similar for him and felt ashamed seeming so like the writer, in personality, lack of creativity and ambition, and now his physical appearance. He thought about the possibility of suicide, but this could not be achieved unless the writer committed suicide himself, because the First, as well as all the other character’s, existed entirely through the Writer.

The Other spoke, but the First ignored him, did not absorb a word. He simply sat at the edge of the pile of manuscripts, stared at the inner wall of the metal filing cabinet, his distorted reflection which appeared much like his previous appearance and felt comforted by it, familiarity, when all he knew seemed to be escaping him. He could feel change coming and terrified but knew what he had to do.

He looked deeper into his distorted reflection, until nearly all traces of the Writer disappeared, and studied the shadows, reflections of objects in the cabinets and a warped image