Exchange of Realities

Usually, I am a believer in the innate goodness of the human spirit. What this means, in terms of my writing, is that I want to know why those who are evil, or the local equivalent, have slipped onto that path; I have a hard time seeing it come naturally. Great betrayals, misguided ambitions, the idea that this cause is somehow “right” (twisted logic makes for sweet characterization!)—or psychological conditions, those will do as well I suppose—but I always want a reason.

And then came today, and what could go wrong did, but out of it I was able to find the answer to why those without prior explanations go evil.

It begins with a month-long bad day. Or a season-long. Or a year-long, if you’re the particularly patient sort; it can take a lot to trigger these sorts of responses. Either way, though, it’s bad. You’ve got moths in the closet and rubbish in the halls, and they seem to be in a race to see which can multiply the fastest. The people who are supposed to remove the stuff don’t. Everything that can go wrong is.

You want to get ahead—make a change, even a tiny change, you’re not asking for much—but all you can do is go in circles. You aren’t even Sisyphus; why the heck are you shoving his pet rock? And it all starts wearing you away, little by little by little.

That’s when they come. They whisper in your ear, they hang out in your mirror, they show up in the top layer of the papers, whispering, telling you your goals are for naught because the world is out to get you, it’s against you, and you can’t help believing them because today was the day you tried to buy something and the place closed early just as you got there, and then that other place wasn’t clear on what you were supposed to be doing, and it’s been a season since the last time you actually made any sort of progress, and really what’s the point of upkeep when everything’s just going to crumble when you look away, but they’ll help, oh yes, they will, they’ll give you the power to chase away this ill fortune, to make the world operate under, if not the rules it’s supposed to, then your rules, and they whisper this again and again, endlessly self-bridging sentences that twine around each other like those morning glories that just keep wandering off your fence and into your garden, with no room for periods because that might give you time to think, just endless blandishments and entreaties to believe them, to let them help you….

And you say yes. Really, what else can you do?

At first, it’s as promised. You have legions now, with matching uniforms and a terrifying presence. Their marksmanship is superb, their discipline perfect, and their loyalty complete. Your closer minions adore you—okay, occasionally you have to remind them to quit basking in your glory and get some work done, but the basking is flattering enough to make it worthwhile. You made a rather chilling example of the last person who slammed the door to their shop in your face a minute before closing time, and now they stay open early if they see you leave home near the end of the day. And your home… the messes are gone. It is your castle, it takes care of itself, it is the most awe-inspiring and best-kept building in miles. You are loved, feared, worshiped—the world is yours.

And then come the protagonists. You’re sure you recognize them, or people like them. That loudmouthed brat with the outsized sword? Someone like that was always showing you up when you were young. The spellslinger who hangs on the brat’s every word? You admired someone like them once, and the only time they spared for you was mockery—or worse, you confided in them, let them in, and they cleaned you out before running to the arms of the one whom sword-brat reminds you of. Even the highly puntable animal companion, rather than giving you the warm fuzzies it clearly invokes in every girl under the age of twenty-one in the county, brings forth in you memories of ruined boots and foul-smelling patches of flooring.

It’s not a coincidence.

This is your time, and even you realize it. Your words fall flat. Against all odds, your legions are unable to target these numbskulls; even the animal companion is a match for any six of them. You watch, you hurl your forces at them, you devise clever plans, and they somehow find loopholes that a five year old child could have discovered, but you missed. It is when they reach your main hall and face you directly that you realize it.

The bad luck is here. Your patrons only kept it back. So instead of striking you little by little, it’s been building up around you, just waiting for the day that it can torrent down in full force and wash you away. They see it in your eyes, and the brat with the sword smiles. The words of the explanation of your fell deeds and why you must be destroyed wash over you, and you hear none of it. Dead parent? Offended mentor? Here on a dare? If it weren’t them, it would be others; all these little heroes are alike, really, just puppets of the ill fortune. All you need to know is that it speaks, and it says “Did you miss me?”

And so it ends.