act thirteen: 'til the bitter end
"How'd I know you'd be in here? I swear, dad... you're always writing..."
A young womanwalks down a dimly lit hall, to a dimly lit room where a wrinkled old man sits at a dusty old desk, withered papers scattered about and a dull lamplight shining down upon a single bit of scrap, where upon the old man spatters ink from his pen in the form of letters and words, of sentences and paragraphs... in the form of a story, a story among many others.
The man is smiling, creases forming in the edges of his eyes as he lets loose a small bit of laughter, grip never fading on his beloved pen. He allows his mind a bit of rest however, lifting his head to look back at the young woman, who stands against the doorframe of his study with her arms crossed and a smile on her face. She chuckles softly and makes her way over to the elderly man, leaning down to place a soft kiss on his forehead and, soon after, to give him a loving hug. He returns the hug to the best of his ability, his arms tired in his age and his strength withered away... yet, somehow, his spirit left untouched by time.
"Of course I am, sweetheart... I've always got something to write about, after all."
The old man laughs heartily, only now placing the pen upon the desk and away from the withered paper, still damp from the ink of the letters and the words. He turns fully in his chair, the young woman taking a step back to admire the stack of papers on the side of the desk that the old man has accumulated. Her eyes do not forget to also take in the scattered papers left astray, some crumpled or scribbled upon, ultimately to be discarded out of frustration or annoyance to their lack of cooperation to the old man's story. She can't help but smile. To her, he is a perfectionist 'til the bitter end.
"So what is it this time, then? Dragons? A warrior's pride? That old western story of yours was great, but I always perfered the one about the samurai..."
The old man fondly looks back upon the papers, shaking his head softly. There's a touch of aged emotion in his eyes, blended well with the memories of a past he holds onto in pride, and of the people long past that he cherished so greatly. He lowers his gaze to the pen once held within his hands and sighs, gently lifting it once again. It was not, of course, the same pen he'd always written with... indeed, this one was given to him as a gift at his last book signing, and he had only began breaking it in days before.
Throughout the course of his lifetime, the old man had gone through approximately 8,137 pens of various styles, ranging from gel to ballpoint, from manufactured to hand-crafted... he had seen many designs and had felt many styles, and he'd used them all upon until their ink had ran dry. Not all of those pens had a great story to tell; indeed, throughout the course of his lifetime, the old man had also gone through approximately 492,003 pages of story, many of which never seeing anything beyond the interior of his trashbin.
"No... none of those, dear. I don't recycle characters, after-all, or at least I try not to."
There's a smile in the man's voice, as he remembers the playful jabs of an old friend at his insistence upon certain character types in his writing. Indeed, for so long in his youth he relied upon fantasty as a means to convey what he did in his own life... it seemed to help him concentrate, and prepare. Over time he did grow past that phase, but... all too often he still felt nostalgic enough to do it all over again, and when he got into those moods there was nothing said that could keep him from visiting that style once again.
Yet when it came to the character... he always paid close attention. From motivation to development, from backstory to visions of the character's future. He was always a planner, always a master craftsman that would excel in particular at pushing forward the path of a character in their journey, making out all the twists and turns they could take and, upon completion, trying to find new ways to push the bounds of those very paths created. He was rarely satisfied, always critical of his work... but, sometimes, he simply had to push forward with things anyway.
A true writer can take what seems like nothing and make it into something entirely brand new. A skilled creator can take a circumstance in reality and twist it to fit in an entirely different perspective, among an entirely different crowd, in an entirely different time. The old man prided himself upon trying to do those very things, and make sure to see himself among the ranks of those talented elite.
"No, this time... there are no fairy tales, no grim stories, no dreams and no nightmares. This time, I'm writing of memories, as I've done before. The difference being... I think I'm almost at my end."
In the days of his youth, the old man believed that his story would finish when the big events of his times would come crashing to an end. From the abrupt stop the company he'd been apart of made, to the crashing fall of the one before that, and to all future endeavours beyond those days... he always thought he'd be closing a chapter on his life that would constitute such a large portion of his story, enough to perhaps even stand on its own.
In the days of his youth, the old man had been naive.
"Almost at your... what? But dad, you... you've been writing about your memories for so long... if you're almost at you're end..."
The old man took the pen into his hand once again. The coolness of the metal casing was soothing to the skin on his hands, and his tired eyes regarded the papers scattered upon his desk, and those left neatly stacked at his side. A single paper sat underneath the spotlight provided by the dim desk lamp, the paper he had dampened with the ink of the pen. He had almost fiilled the paper entirely with his words, but... something had began to slow him down. Something had made him realize he was running out of things to say.
Something was telling him that his story was finally coming to an end.