Ethan had clawed his way up from the depths of despair. His mind, a tempest of fractured thoughts, had both tormented and fueled him. As a struggling writer, he’d scribbled stories even on napkins… He had always been a man of shadows. His mind, a labyrinth of fractured mirrors, reflected both brilliance and madness.
Then came the breakthrough- A rough book that changed his whole life, a creation of his own turned against himself.
In his early days, when he was just learning to write and draw, he kept an old notebook where he tried out ideas. That notebook was never supposed to mean anything. It was just a practice book, a place to experiment. When he finally used up every page, Ethan gave it a name: The Draft.
Its pages were a mess, filled with stories he abandoned and characters he thought were failures—villains too cruel, heroes too broken, and plots that made no sense. Still, Ethan couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He thought, Maybe someday, one of these ideas will come in handy.
"The DRAFT” a book made for his garbage works as he calls it. but was beyond something, because as he wrote and put his worst of worst characters here, a chaotic mix of discarded fantasies, twisted realities, and characters who defied conventional morality. It was supposed to be a dumping ground for his creative refuse. but he didn’t know….
The worst-of-worst characters—the misfits, the malevolent, the forgotten—had found refuge within the pages of “The Draft.” They clawed their way out of the abyss of his subconscious, demanding their moment in the spotlight. Ethan, unwittingly, had given them life.
He read, wrote and the words bled into his veins. The characters—half-remembered, half-imagined—whispered. They knew him. They were him.
[Scene: Ethan’s study—a realm of forgotten dreams]
Ethan Hartley sat in his opulent study, surrounded by mahogany bookshelves that sagged under the weight of leather-bound tomes. In an era of modernity, the room smelled of aged paper and privilege. Outside, the city glittered—a mosaic of glass and ambition.
The weight of three decades bearing down upon him. His life—a once blank canvas, now marred by chaotic strokes—mocked him with its incomprehensibility. The books he’d penned, like forgotten echoes in a vast library, whispered their inadequacy. His writing, once a beacon of hope, now felt like ink spilled on crumpled paper and then, as if the universe had grown tired of his self-imposed exile, a knock echoed through the dimly lit room. The sound was both intrusive and welcome—a disruption to his solitude, a rift in the fabric of his contemplations.
Ethan hesitated, fingers trembling as they reached for the doorknob. Who could it be? A lost friend seeking solace? A mysterious stranger with secrets to unravel? Or perhaps just the neighbor, delivering an overdue package.
He turned the knob, and the door creaked open. There, framed by the threshold, stood a figure—an enigma in the half-light. Their eyes held stories; their lips poised to speak.
Comments (2)
See all