Villainous

The glow of the computer’s monitor barely registers on my face, thanks to the ceiling light that spills amply into the room. But just because you don’t register something doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

I didn’t register the intruder in my room right away.

But he was there.

I was busy tapping way on the keyboard as strings of words spilled across the screen.

“Whose life are you ruining, now?” a voice behind me said.

I turned.

He was a big guy. Not one I could likely fight. Or get past. Dressed in a single shade of beige. Even his face was beige and mostly featureless due to the stocking he must have been wearing over his head,

“Who are you?” I asked, uneasy.

He huffed.

“Don’t recognize me, huh? Not surprised.”

“Should I?”

“Nah. You never bothered with any detail. I was just a blur. A vague shape. A friggin’ container for your lazy bullshit.”

No idea what he was talking about. But I knew I had to think fast. Get him to leave peacefully.

“Look. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I have a security system and so there are probably local patrolmen already on their way.”

“Yeah. Bet that’s bullshit, too.”

I pulled my lips in tight, that uncomfortable feeling increasing.

“Who are you?!”

This time the huff was more of a snort.

“Does the name Donnie McCallester ring a bell?”

My eyes wandered the slightest, uncontrollably, as I scanned my memory and came up with nothing. I shook my head.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Nah. That’s actually right on point. I’m totally forgettable. And it’s your fault.”

Now I scoffed. “How is it my fault?”

“One Special Spring? That story about Rudy and his allergies?”

Rudy? Allergies? A vague sense of recall somewhere in the back of my brain. I write a lot; can’t remember everything off the top of my head. But there was a story about a guy who overcame his allergies through an experimental drug that caused unexpected side effects. I didn’t recall his name. And what did that story have to do with this imposing intruder who stared at me so intently.

Waiting.

“Yeah,” I said, finally. “I guess.”

“And the cookie-cutter villain character? Barely described. Other than with a few cursory comments about vague bullying and cruelty. Just a big blur of an archetypical bad guy.”

The critique would have stung if the situation weren’t so precarious.

“So…you’re here to bash my writing?”

“No,” he said. “I’m here to bash your fuckin’ head in!”

That did it. I was officially, seriously freaked out.

“Who the fuck are you!?“ I yelped, my voice cracking in a high pitch from my skyrocketing stress.

“I told you,” he said, gesturing and posturing like an overbaked Nicolage Cage. “I’m Donnie McCallester. The featureless, cliché bully. The complete, irredeemable asshole. The one-dimensional detractor you just conveniently, cavalierly created so Rudy got a convenient shot at administering karma. Cheap as fuck, man!”

“Are you serious right now?”

“Damn straight, I’m serious!” he said, starting toward me. “That’s how you wrote me, asshole! A fuckin’ faceless bully! I coulda been a nice guy! I coulda been Rudy’s best friend! We coulda hung out! Played basketball!”

“Basketball?!“

He stops for half a second.

“Okay, maybe not basketball, ‘cause he was shrimp.”

“And had severe exercise-induced asthma.”

“Which was not my fault!”

“I didn’t blame you for his asthma!”

“You might as well have! Seemed like you blamed me for everything else!”

“Oh, bullshit! That’s just your guilty conscience warping your perspective!”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?!”

I huffed. Flummoxed. Then:

“Fine. So…what? You’re gonna kill me because I didn’t describe your cheekbones or give you a tragic backstory? I mean, if you want me to rewrite you, I can’t very well do it if I’m dead, now, can I?!”

He stopped in his tracks. Now he looked flummoxed.

“Well, shit. Hadn’t thought of that.”

I exhale, my shoulders relaxing a bit. It all made sense, in a crazy way, now. He really was faceless. Because that’s how he was in my story. And that was entirely on me.

“Okay, look,” I said. “I’ll rewrite the story. Describe your physicality in greater detail. I can’t make you all loveable, though. You’re a villain. You have to have to be full of darkness. But I can maybe come up with something to humanize you.”

“Let’s see it,” he said, nodding to the computer.

“Okay. I don’t know where the file is, but let me write something for you and I’ll plug it in when I find the story, okay?”

His arm extended, gesturing to the computer.

I nodded. Turned to the monitor, hoping to hell the guy wouldn’t bash my head in while my back was turned. I opened a new page and set my hands on the keyboard. Started typing:

Donnie McCallister. Dark, tousled hair. Piercing eyes. Plaid shirt tucked into rugged jeans that ended at his mud-crusted Timberland-style boots. Took his dad’s beatings to the grave.

I stopped. Not knowing what else to write.

“Is that enough? It’s a short story, so I can’t be too verbose. Gotta be tight.”

I turned.

There he was.

Dark, tousled hair. Piercing eyes. Plaid shirt. Muddy boots.

Tears in his eyes.

And a big ol’ grin.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

And he was gone.

I just stood, frozen in place, breathing—suddenly aware of my heart pounding in my chest and the strange lump in my throat.

I thought about all the characters I’d written in my lifetime. How many of them had I done an injustice? Would they forgive me? Should they?

Should I forgive myself?

Who really was the villain?

If you want to read “One Special Spring”, here it is:

One Special Spring