Am I the Villain? (Entry One)

Am I the villain?

Perhaps. 

But then what would that make you?

I am here to be remembered. You are here to gain control. Oh, what’s that? I don’t get to tell this story. Because I’m the bad guy? I’m the bad guy and he’s the hero. Interesting coming from someone with blood on their hands. 

You say that you’re not here to gain control, that you’re just here to stop me. That I need to be put down, contained, controlled. 

The Villain set down the pen, slowly turning away from the desk. They raised an eyebrow at the hero on the other side of the room. Chest heaving, exhausted, bleeding, the hero took a step towards them.

“You– have ruled– for long enough,” they panted. 

The villain rolled their eyes, sighed, and spun back around. 

Your story is the one that you get to tell. The one where mine is silenced. The one where I am the most evil, the blackest of hearts, the darkest of all monsters. The one where, once you defeat me, I will be blotted from history. 

“What are you doing?” the hero snapped. A bit of the exhaustion faded from their face and they straightened, crossing their arms. 

“I’m writing. It’s something civilized people do.” The villain dipped their pen back into the inkwell and tapped the extra off the end. 

“You could at least look at me when I’m talking to you.” The hero sounded surprisingly like a petulant child. 

But I will not be forgotten. I will not be brushed aside. You cannot ignore me like you’ve ignored everyone else. I will make myself unforgettable, and you will not defeat me today. Or the next time, or the next time. I will make sure the world will always remember me.

Perhaps you’ll be the one they forget. 

“Stop!” The window next to the villain’s head exploded, shards of glass flying everywhere. One caught the villain under the eye, blood dripping down their cheek. 

“Or what?” Slowly, the villain set down the pen. Even slower, they picked up the sword laying beside it. “You’ll kill me? Oh hero, you know you won’t do that.”

“I will.” The Hero’s voice was steady. Their hands didn’t shake. 

“That’s right,” the villain mused, hefting the weapon and turning away from the table. “Now you will. Because you killed ten people just to get to me. Just to make it through this building. Their blood is all over your hands.”

“I had to,” the hero said savagely. “You gave me no choice!”

“Oh stop being so poetically tragic!” the villain snapped. “I gave you every chance! Every opportunity to step aside, to leave them and come to me.” Swords flashed in the light streaming through the broken window. “But you didn’t. And that begs a question.”

“A question?” The hero positioned their body behind their blade, readying for a fight. They cocked an eyebrow, lips curled in a sneer. 

“What makes a villain?” The villain drew back their sword. “And what makes a hero?”

They lunged forward.