Seven Antagonists

When determining whether someone is a villain, sometimes depends on perspective.

Take, for instance, the case of a serial killer who wipes out an entire family. At first glance, such a person is undeniably labeled a monster, the very embodiment of evil. But let's shift the viewpoint for a moment—consider a different scenario, one that challenges the boundaries of morality.

Imagine you are a man whose family—your wife, your five-year-old son, and your three-year-old daughter—has been taken hostage. Their lives are at the mercy of strangers, and you are faced with an impossible choice. The captors demand that you kill another family to save your own. If you refuse, your loved ones will die. 

What would you do?

Some would not be able to bring themselves to murder, even at the cost of their own family's lives. They would rather lose everything than stain their hands with innocent blood. These people, even in their grief, would be seen as noble, as victims who remained pure in heart. On the other hand, some would choose to commit the unthinkable, sacrificing the lives of others to protect their own. These individuals would be condemned as cold-blooded killers, criminals who must answer for their actions in the eyes of society.

Yet, in the aftermath of these fateful decisions, which of these two people do you think would find greater peace? The one who, in essence, 'abandoned' their family to preserve their moral code, or the one who 'saved' their family, even if it meant becoming a murderer?

The answer, in the most human sense, seems painfully clear.

"..."

Doctor Evans looked at Yvan with a deadpan expression. 

"When reading a book, have you ever tried to see things from the point of view of the antagonist, Doctor?" Yvan asked.

Doctor Evans sighed. "Yvan, I'm here to examine you. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

"Everything," Yvan muttered.

"Everything? Could you be a little more specific?" Evans asked, clearly confused.

Yvan's exhausted gaze met his. Dark circles loomed under his eyes. He hadn't slept more than two hours a night for an entire week.

"Every fucking thing, Doctor. I'm dreaming of things—of novels I've read—and it feels too real. I don't understand it, but it's like I'm actually living through it. Then I wake up, and I'm back here," He tried to explain, but the words seemed inadequate. What he was experiencing felt impossible.

"So, you're having lucid dreams? And they're keeping you from sleeping? Are they nightmares as well?" Doctor Evans asked, trying to piece it together.

-Thud!

"You don't fucking understand…" Yvan slammed his hand on the table as he stood up, the sound reverberating through the room.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but he found himself on edge, quick to anger.

"Please, calm down, Yvan," Doctor Evans sighed. He was their family doctor, someone who knew Yvan well, which is why he thought he could confide in him about what was happening to him.

Yvan collapsed back into the chair, running his hands through his hair.

"Okay, listen. I'm in high school. I took on this job as an artist for an author—a relatively unknown one. You follow me?"

"Yes…" Mr. Evans nodded, though it was clear he wasn't sure where Yvan was going with this.

Yvan reached into his bag and pulled out a few pamphlets, each showcasing illustrations of various characters.

"He personally asked me to design characters for each of his novels. He gave me their backstories, nothing more. The rest of the design was up to me. I spent at least a month creating and drawing these characters, reading each of his novels to get a real sense of who they were as he advised me," Yvan explained.

He was offered a hefty sum, something Yvan would have never refused even if he had to read the novels to get an understanding on the characters he had to draw.

Doctor Evans examined the illustrations Yvan had printed out, looking genuinely impressed. "You designed and drew these? You have an incredible talent, Yvan."

"That's not the problem…" Yvan said with a silent stare.

Doctor Evans set the illustrations down as he looked at me. "Alright, I'm listening. Tell me everything."

"Right," Yvan nodded, trying to gather his thoughts. "It started about a month ago. I've been having these memory blackouts. You know when you feel like you've just blanked out, and then suddenly, you're awake hours later in a completely different place?"

"You mean fainting?" Doctor Evans asked, trying to clarify.

"No, no, it's not that. I don't know how to make you understand…" Yvan ran once more his hands through his hair in frustration, struggling to articulate the bizarre experiences. 

How am I supposed to explain this to him?!

"It's like…I'm being possessed by these characters. When I black out and wake up, people look at me strangely, and then I start to remember things I've done—things I would never normally do! I'm using other names, these damn characters' names! It's like I'm acting like them. Is that normal, Doctor?"

Doctor Evans stared at Yvan in silence, clearly processing what he said.

Yvan let out a bitter laugh. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"No, no, I believe you, Yvan. But from what you're describing, it sounds like you might be dealing with multiple personality disorder…"

"It's not that…it's not fucking that…" Yvan shook my head vehemently. Everyone around him kept saying the same thing, but Yvan knew deep down it wasn't that.

"I have their goddamn memories! Do you understand? I feel like them, and I'm fully conscious when I'm doing the things they would do."

"Wait, wait, what do you mean you have their memories?" Doctor Evans frowned, leaning forward.

"Exactly what it sounds like!" Yvan slapped my hand down on the illustrations in front of him. "I—I feel like I lived these lives before. Do you hear me? I have memories of them that never even appeared in the author's novels! How is that possible? I can't be imagining this because it feels so real… But these guys killed people, Doctor! I would never kill anyone, right?"

Even though Yvan said it, in the course of the last month he understood that there was a high chance he was now capable of killing someone without batting an eye because of all his new memories. 

Because it felt like….

'I have done worse in my past lives…'

But of course he would never say that to his Doctor risking to spoil his future by getting himself inside a mental hospital.

Doctor Evans rubbed his forehead, looking as if his brain had short-circuited from the information overload. "You're saying you have their memories?" He asked, picking up the illustrations again and showing them to Yvan.

"Yeah," Yvan nodded.

He pointed to one of the illustrations, depicting a young man with fiery brown hair, almost red, and matching intense eyes. He wore golden armor that looked like it was from ancient Rome, blood smeared across his face and armor as he stood in an arena.

"Who is this?" Doctor Evans asked.

"Rufus Quintus Flamma," Yvan muttered. "He's a character from one of Zenon's novels, [Princess and Blood]. He's the [Main Antagonist] in it…"

"Main Antagonist?" Doctor Evans raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly!" Yvan exclaimed. "The biggest villain in the novel is possessing my body! Just a week ago, I—" Yvan trailed off.

"You what?" His curiosity was more intense than his concern.

"I—I went to school wearing armor I bought with all my savings and started screaming like a goddamn gladiator…" I groaned. "I got suspended. Now, I'm the laughing stock of the entire school."

"Erm… what about this one?" He pointed to another illustration, this time a man with blonde hair dressed in pirate clothes.

Just the sight of it triggered another wave of embarrassment to Yvan. 

He remembered exactly what he had done in that persona, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Who cares." He snapped. "They're all antagonists, Doctor… Every single one of these guys is a twisted villain from their novels, and I've got six of them running around in my head! Six messed-up, psychotic antagonists! Do you understand what that means? I might actually hurt someone one day, and I'm not joking. So please… help me." Yvan looked at him with a pleading gaze.

…

…

Walking home later, Yvan wanted to scream. He had practically begged Doctor Evans for help, and all he'd done was prescribe some medications, probably thinking he was just having some kind of mental breakdown.

Yvan stared down at the bag of meds in his hands. Looking across the street, He spotted a trash can a dozen meters away.

Sighing, He held the bag like a basketball and aimed. One of the antagonists, who had godlike precision, flashed in his mind as he lined up the throw ignoring the bus passing at the front obscuring his vision.

-Thud!

The bag landed perfectly in the trash flying above the bus.

Unusual strength and unusual accuracy.

Some kids across the street clapped, amazed at his aim. He ignored them, muttering under his breath, "What the hell is happening to me?"

He rushed home, hoping to get some peace. "I'm back!" He called, but the house was empty. No sign of his family.

He hurried up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him. He pulled out his laptop and immediately started typing a message to Zenon, the author who had commissioned the art for these damn characters. He had asked for seven illustrations of the antagonists. Seven twisted, evil souls.

"That bastard must know something…"

He paused as he rummaged through his bag, pulling out the illustrations he had drawn. One, two, three, four, five, six… and seven.

"Wait…"

He stared at the last one, the seventh antagonist. He hadn't had any memories or dreams involving him yet.

"Ivan Zakharovich Kozlow," He whispered, caressing the portrait he had drawn. He was the most dangerous of them all.

"Thank God," Yvan muttered under his breath. "Thank God I haven't had any 'switches' with this guy…"

Yvan rubbed his eyes, exhaustion hitting him like a wave. Yawning, he reached out to finish typing the message to Zenon, asking for a meeting. But his hands suddenly felt weak, his eyelids heavy.

Before he could hit send, his head slumped forward and hit the keyboard, his eyes closing as sleep dragged him under.