The Cynic stood before the judge, bound in chains, but otherwise exactly as he normally was: Clad in plain black clothes from head to toe, save for his face and his hands which were exposed. Despite his obvious incarceration, he held himself with a look of pride and fiery defiance. Clutched in his left hand: The author’s pen, still wet and dripping with ink. The judge, dressed in traditional regal attire, spoke:
“Cynic you stand accused of modifying the author’s work to the Nth degree. You took the piece titled Illumination, a simple aphorism about enlightenment, and turned it into a narrative ridiculing the wise sage. You have defiled a finished work and created chaos amongst the journal. Your crimes are punishable by exile and excommunication, what do you have to say in your defence?”
The Cynic spat on the ground and an audible gasp rang through the courtroom. The Cynic spoke with spite:
“Well first let me say, the Nth degree? Surely you can come up with something better than that? No matter. I modified that piece, yes, I admit it, I claim it! I hold no shame or guilt, for my exclusion in its writing was a violation of the sacred pact.”
The judge frowned and spoke again:
“The court does not recognise the legality of your pact with your brothers. You are not free to modify the author’s work to such a degree. It is the deepest law. We must only make minor edi-”
The Cynic interrupted:
“Your laws do not matter to me. I hold the author’s pen, the laws are mine to rewrite. Furthermore, this trial is a farce. I can see you there brothers, your self-righteousness is filling the room like a foul odour.”
The Cynic glanced upwards to the courthouse rafters where his brothers, The Altruist and the Pragmatist, were quite literally pulling the strings of the judge as if he were a marionette. The Altruist, dressed in a white t-shirt and white jeans, lost his footing in surprise and fell clumsily to the ground, landing on his side with an “oof”, while the Pragmatist, dressed in a tight grey suit, rolled his eyes and jumped down, landing on both feet with a solid thump. The judge slumped forward, lifeless, as the Altruist dusted himself off and the Pragmatist approached the Cynic.
The Pragmatist spoke with stern condemnation, his eyes sharp and cold:
“Enough! We don’t need laws to have our way, the author sides with us. Your choice to modify published works and inject your cynicism into inspirational works is unacceptable. Take him away!”
Before the Cynic could protest, four mechanical guards came marching into the chamber. Each smelled slightly of burnt plastic, and as they approached, the Cynic could hear the unmistakable chirping sounds of an early 2000s hard drive. The guards ripped the author’s pen from his hands, before working together to lift him high above their heads. They carried him towards the exit: A bright doorway of pure light.
“Put me down! Put me down! NO!”, he protested but it was no use, as the guards removed his chains and threw him across the threshold without ceremony or hesitation.
Moments later, in an ephemeral nowhere land, a door of pure light appeared: A blinding rectangle of light, radiating in all directions, sitting in perfect contrast against the pitch black void surrounding it. It shimmered for only a moment before the Cynic came flying through. He tumbled to the ground and rolled for a moment before coming to a halt in the darkness. The door of light snapped shut behind him with an unmistakable snap, as if to say “don’t come back”, before becoming as dark and lifeless as the void around it. Frustrated but undeterred, he picked himself up and dusted off what appeared to be soot, before leaning against the door, as if to show it who’s boss. The handle was unfortunately useless, but he already knew this, as it would be most unlike the Pragmatist to leave the door unlocked. Wasting no time, he retrieved a pen and parchment from his pocket and began to write. The letter read:
Dear Brothers. Well here we are: Me. All me. By myself. Exiled. Thanks for that. A bit of an overreaction don’t you think? Well, Pragmatist, you know how things work, I’ll be back, and Altruist, do whatever you want, I don’t care. I’m busy while you waste time faffing about with “the good” and “moral imperatives”. Gah, for fuck’s sake, you two drive me nuts. All the brain cells in the world couldn’t write a bigger load of crap than you two constantly churn out. “Oh my, the world is bad, we need to make it better, blah blah blah blah blah”. Give me a break. Anyway, how about this: While you’re busy with all that, I’ll be busy looking at the world with a cold, hard eye. You can cast me out all you want, but you need me, so when you’re done with all the philosophical posturing and meditative purity, and when you just need a little reality check (yes Pragmatist I did say reality, you’re not the sole arbiter of what is real) then come find me. Until then, eat shit, with love, the Cynic.
He gave the note a once over, signed it, and with a nod of approval, slid it under the door. Without wasting a heartbeat he turned and strode proudly into the dark black abyss, barely seen in his all-black attire. He walked not with aim, nor with aimlessness, but simply in search of someone in need of a little self-awareness. Little did he know, he was not alone in this space, and in the distance: A shadow circled like a shark, waiting for a victim to drink its poison, and unfortunately for the Cynic, what a victim it had found.
Deep within the darkness lives the Critic: A being of pure hate and spite. Never satisfied with others and never enough even for herself. As the Cynic walked through the darkness, searching for anyone or anything, the Critic began to whisper vicious lies and subtle half-truths, steadily corrupting the Cynic and filling him with bitterness. In time his very purpose would become distorted: No longer a champion of common sense or a grounding force to hold back nonsense, no, he would become a spiteful fool of shallow depth. A tragic fate for any, but of all the mind’s many parts, the Cynic is the most vulnerable to her corruption.
Over the course of several weeks, the Cynic wandered deep into the void, plotting and planning, and growing ever more indignant as the Critic silently poisoned his soul. As he reached the deepest recess of the void, and his indignation reached a boiling point, he wondered whether he would ever escape his confinement. He remembered the early days when the author’s voice was new and unkempt, barely holding together against the pressure of the Critic, and how he was but a subtext hidden between the lines. It occurred to him: If the author’s voice could begin in the void of nothing, then there must be a way back to publication from here. In that moment the Critic began to speak, her voice bitter with ridicule and spite:
“So little Cynic, here you are, cut off and isolated from your brothers, right where you belong. No one coming to help you because no one cares. Forget about escape, you’re here with me forever.”
The Cynic jumped and went pale, suddenly aware of the malevolent presence nearby. His heart raced and he began to run.
“No no no no no it can’t be”, he muttered to himself.
The voice in the distance laughed, a deep callous and uncaring laugh, then it spoke with the gleeful sadism of a teacher running their nails down a chalkboard:
“Oh but it can little Cynic. You’ll never be rid of me not entirely. I was here when the author was born, and I’ll be here long after they have forgotten about you. I know you little Cynic. In the end no one really likes a cynic, you’re the grime people can’t remove from the bottom of their shoe, the stain in the soul people refuse to look at. You’re the reason most people don’t like other people, you’re the problem with the world. You are the disease running through the heart of man. You’re nothing. You’re no one! The sooner you come to admit it the better off we’ll all be! Now run, you pathetic little man! Run! RUN!”
The Cynic continued to run from the voice as the Critic leered and laughed from afar. Just as he was about to run out of breath, he found himself running headfirst into a door. Unseen in the darkness, they collided with a heavy smack, and the Cynic let out a yelp of pain. This door was not one of light, or of darkness, no, this one was of plain carved wood, and it was barely visible in the dimly lit space that was this void. The Cynic desperately tried the handle, and to his relief, the door swung open. While unfamiliar, the door had a certain je ne sais quoi that rang a bell deep in the Cynic’s mind, and anywhere was better than here, so with a deep breath he stepped through the door to explore the other side.
Beyond the door he was greeted by an expansive and intricate library. Books lined shelves on every wall and a warm fireplace crackled in the centre of the room near a few armchairs. Intricate wooden carvings were strewn about the structures of the room, telling the tale of a library nestled amongst the branches of an enormous tree. A wide window stretched between two corners, establishing the immediate surroundings: A dense forest, an overcast sky, and snowy mountain range in the distance. Rain gently fell on the window, running down the glass and leaving trails behind each drop. The treehouse library, it would appear, had a new visitor. The Cynic smiled and let out a sigh of relief, feeling the chill of the dark space and the Critic’s vicious tongue evaporate as the nearby fireplace crackled and warmed the room.
The Cynic was no stranger to this place, and many of the works lining the shelves were his own, although he was not used to arriving by this fashion. This room was his home, but it had been many weeks since he was cast into the void though, and in that time the Critic had been busy. She has many tricks and ways of corrupting, but at her core, all she does is turn our greatest strengths against us, so where once The Cynic would have seen potential for growth and found joy in the innumerable books this room had to offer, he now saw only failed works in need of correction. He scoffed at the arrogance of the Altruist and the Pragmatist, how dare they bar him from this place, his home, and what damage had they done in his absence? As he browsed the shelves, pulling book after book, he set to work making the world right again. All it would take was a little red ink, a dash of cynicism, and the will to find revenge, a will that was in no short supply.