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The end. Conclusion. The end? That’s all she wrote. Fin. But most commonly, the end.
It is the point at which a story concludes, leaving behind only the reader in its aftermath. Some stories have good endings, some bad, some happy, some sad. But really, nothing matters more than it being the end.
Anyone would argue that the end of the story is the last page of structure, of imagination, but you know that’s not true.
In fact, the end can be in the first two pages.
This may be confusing, but think about it.
The true end of a story is the point at which the author loses sight of what they are writing for. When they begin booking it to the last page in order to meet a deadline, or when they force themselves to write without the passion that they started with. That is the true end of a story.
A story isn’t quite different from a human life. In fact, it’s not different at all.
Nikolai Gogol has met the true end of his life. But for the life of him (pun intended) he cannot remember when it happened.
The last page of his story included a buzzing saw, the screams of normal men, and the opening of a birdcage.
Perhaps he met his real end at the very start of the story, when a small child started screaming fresh out of the womb.
Perhaps it occurred in his uncle’s theater, where he staged plays to his heart’s content. Where his handy overcoat allowed the fastest costume change known to all of Ukraine and even the world.
No, it must have been when he was a young student at university, where he was mocked and called a “mysterious giant” by his peers. Where no one understood him, and he felt his self-consciousness begin to poke through his rose-tinted youth.
Or perhaps it was on the streets of Saint Petersburg, where finally no one could understand him and his ability became a tool for thievery. By then, surely, or…
He thought he saw the end, like an author writing with barely an ounce of an outline. A buzzing saw, the screams of normal men, and the opening of a birdcage. That’s what the outline called for, after all. But, how often does an author stick to their first outline written in a heat of drunken passion anyway?
Unlike many others, Nikolai Gogol realized the flaw in his end before the false end was already upon him. Like an author that realized all they’ve written is hot garbage, and they scrap it all to start anew. There would be no screaming fans calling for a rewrite, no siree because there would be no mistake in the end. When did he realize such a flaw, when his entire life he spent focusing on that end, you may ask. The answer is simple.
Deep, purple eyes that almost glowed.
A smooth and confident tone. One laced with pleasantries yet armed with knives that burrow themselves deeply.
It occurred in a small room as all grand stories do.
A person, who by all sane humanly measurements, he should have despised.
“You’re fighting against God to lose sight of yourself, aren’t you?”
With so very few words, less than Nikolai would normally put into a sentence, the ending he had sought for himself was destroyed. He found something that he never found at birth, at the theater, at university, or on the streets of Saint Petersburg. A person he took comfort in, though hated. Emotions that drew him towards the devil, emotions that pulled him away. In the end, when the devil is on one shoulder you become compelled to listen at least.
But the point is, someone understood him. And just like that, even reality was warped.
In that small room, with a demon of a man he somehow called his dearest friend, Nikolai discovered his story’s true end.
The saw still buzzed, the normal men still screamed, but the birdcage did not open.
The end that Nikolai had been rushing towards, on self-imposed deadlines, existed no more. After all, any half-decent author would know that they can’t end a story right in the middle.
He had glimpsed his true end in that small room and was sure of it. To lose sight of himself, to throw off this cruel self-consciousness…
He would have to kill that dear friend. Only then, would his story be over, would he be allowed to be free from the confines of a script. The death of emotion, a play that makes one laugh and cry and laugh and cry.
The outline makes no sense, with scribbles running off the page. Any editor would toss it out, would stare at the author in surprise.
“Is he mad? Is madness what this is? No one wants to read that.”
No, it is not madness. An editor only knows what sells, not what is truest to the existence of humans. They live in a birdcage, peacefully.
Born peacefully, living peacefully, dying peacefully.
They know nothing of the outside world because the door was fastened shut and the key was forgotten. They have never lived freely, no, they’ve only lived content with the bare minimum.
.... Ah, another tangent, again?
While that end hasn’t come yet, he had seen enough to know how to prepare. First, to acquire a body split in two. Then, to disguise it in his likeness. Oh, and to truly kill his dear friend, he will have to take all precautions. He’s seen Crime and Punishment before, and even he cannot quite understand it…
Drats! Ruin! What will he do if he cannot get close? If he dies before reaching Fyodor, then all is for naught, and he really did become the fool. He cannot allow the story to end prematurely! Fyodor never disclosed details on his ability, hell, even God wouldn’t have that information.
… Oh, but there’s someone who can get it. Yes, this end will be reached through the will of a normal man, as every story should be. How could he have forgotten that? Sigma, the man without an identity, with the ability to swap information… Well, it would be a gamble actually. If he dies upon touching Fyodor, Nikolai is back to the drawing board!
There’s a lot of smart people in Yokohama anyways, if it comes to it he can kidnap them. Or, perhaps even that ability nullifier could be of use…
Ah, the life of a strategist is hard! Scripts written in a frenzy litter his desk and trash bin. He distinctly smells something rotting. How long has he been sitting, lost in thought?
There’s a knock on his door. He panics. He throws all of those papers into his overcoat, waking up his legs as he stumbles to the door and opens it.
“Kolya, the boss…” his dearest friend stands before him, looking almost concerned. “Are you alright? You look sick.”
His mind is whirling. He has to think faster than the devil.
“Fedya has quite the nerve to accuse me of looking sick~”
That earns him a frown, but the suspicion is gone. Glory be to the man who acts like a fool.
“If you are fine, then the boss wants to see you. He’s arranged for you to take a secretary position in Yokohama.”
“Oh my, I get to do all of my sightseeing before Fedya! Don’t worry, I’ll send pictures!”
He winks, or it could be considered a blink given he left his mask on his face. Either way, Fyodor doesn’t want to bother decoding his antics for now. Instead, he nods and carries on down the hall. He walks with purpose and in blessed ignorance.
The last few pages of Fyodor’s story are drawing near.
Oh, how he loves his dear friend!