Taxidermy in the Void
It had been a long time since the last time he had written something. He had replaced the habit of writing with other habits — like sitting on the chair behind his desk. Now his main habit was to sit behind his writing desk and, like a father, watch the mischief and childishness of his other self through the windowpane. He watched how he damaged the credibility of both of them, without feeling any desire to stop him.
He had not felt like going outside for a long time, unless every once in a while a book pulled him out of his cave of solitude — and even that happened less frequently these days. All in all, he had nothing to do but watch.
Of course, the fact that he felt no urge to stop his other self did not mean he had no problem with his actions. In secret he was harsh on them both. During those moments when he was present outside the house — through the slight influence he still had over the mind and behavior of his other self — he was harming both of their psyches. But his carefree other self seemed not to care at all. Every attempt he made to destroy that childish happiness only backfired. His other self grew livelier — and more foolish — by the day, while he himself grew sicker and more depressed. It was as though his mind suffered for both of them.
However, things started to change from a certain point onwards. The sky behind the windows had started to darken, and with every effort of his it became cloudier, heavier, blacker. As the sky grew darker, even his other self found less courage to go outside. He felt that his other self was weakening, finally surrendering to the constant pressure — surrendering to his longing to kill him.
This other self had been with him for years, from that night when he was forced to bid farewell to the sweet world of childhood with a naked, vulnerable psyche, and face the terrors of the real world. But that night, part of his being had resisted — as though in terror and with all its strength it had cried "No" to that bloody, soul-crushing transformation.
From that night on, his other self accompanied him in his home — an other self who grew smaller and more childlike as he himself matured. He hated him for being able to face the world with such ease and naive simplicity. And somewhere deep within him, buried beneath heaps of hatred for that other self, he envied him — a jealousy whose existence he himself had forgotten.
Now, at last, he had the opportunity to rid himself of this tormenting creature once and for all.
He sat behind his writing desk. He thought that his final freedom from this foolish being truly deserved a sacred ceremony. After a long time, he picked up his beloved pen and began writing in the dim light of the room. The more he wrote, the more the savage longing within him flared, and the sky beyond the window grew darker. The more he wrote, the more vividly the mad smile of the taxidermist came alive in his mind.
The moment he set the pen down, pure darkness filled his vision. His eyes turned toward the window. There was nothing to see except a vague, obscure object in the distance, somewhere beyond the window. The interior of the house had also suffered from this sudden lack of light.
With naive simplicity he muttered, "Maybe the lights have gone out?" and groped toward where he thought the switch was. But their house had neither a lamp nor a switch. It never had.
By the time he remembered this fact, he had already moved far from his desk. As he tried to retrace his steps, his gaze fell again upon the vague dark object outside the window. This time, however, his eyes — now somewhat accustomed to the darkness — could examine it more closely. For several moments he stared in horror at a taxidermy workshop. Behind its aquarium-like glass wall he could see a man in a white coat, surrounded by mounted animal heads nailed to the wall. For an instant their gazes met, and the taxidermist gave him a calm smile.
Panic-stricken, he ran toward the window in the darkness, until his foot caught on something and he fell. He looked at what had caused his fall and, for the first time since the light had gone out, he noticed his other self. The irritating creature now sat like a madman, waiting for death. Knees drawn to his chest, eyes terrified, whispering some unintelligible gibberish under his breath, rocking back and forth. He quickly tore his eyes away from the pitiful sight and continued moving.
Groping blindly, he reached his writing desk, leaned his hands upon it, and stared at the taxidermist, who was now preparing his tools. The smile on his face grew more deadly by the moment.
With difficulty he tore his gaze away from the workshop and sat at his desk. In the tar-like darkness that had fallen across the room, he picked up what he hoped was his pen and began writing on what he hoped was paper. He wanted to stop the murderer in the workshop before he could complete his vile act. But this time, the more he wrote, the more doubt consumed him and fear drowned his mind. He raised his head and stared at the taxidermist, who now, with a blood-red smile and not one but two pairs of red eyes, was staring back at him. One pair, filled with animal madness, in his own hollow sockets, and another pair, brimming with death — or perhaps life — resting in his gloved, blood-stained palms.
Doubt now completely possessed his mind. What was he holding? A pen — or a sinister gift from the madman he himself had created? With what was he writing? Ink? Blood? Or nothing? But who had said he was writing on paper? In that empty blackness anything might have been beneath his hand — leather, the surface of the desk, animal skin, or something worse…
And what was he writing? Was he completing his new story? Or maybe the taxidermist's work? Perhaps he was pressing the remnants of his tormented psyche upon the pen. What was he writing about? His other self? The taxidermist? His crimson smile? The mad red eyes in his eye sockets? Or the two eyes that swayed between life and death in the taxidermist's hands?
This time, when he lifted his head, he could no longer find the taxidermist. The only things visible in the workshop were two iron spheres hanging near the ceiling among the mounted heads of other creatures, staring at him through the darkness with an icy gaze. As he stared at those two insulting imitations of windows to the soul, he listened to the cold hand of the wind, knocking at the door.
Of course, that was before he remembered that in the cold, black void he had created, there was no wind to begin with.
Madness was knocking.