A Broken Mind: Introduction

The room was dimly lit. Not quite dim enough to be called dark, as a single lamp on the bedside table provided some light, but not bright either. With the blinds closed, the lamp was the only source of light, and it cast dark shadows into the corners of the room. A desk, well ordered and complete with a chair, sat next to the wall furthest from the door. A large and well stocked book shelf stood next to it, tucked into a corner. A small electric piano and a set of weights filled the other two corners; in the third was the door, almost always shut. In the center of the room was a large, well-made bed. On it sat Eric, the owner of the room, and subject to the varying and often conflicting interests displayed by his surroundings. He was large, fit and well-built but not overtly so, with blond hair bordering on brown, brown eyes, and skin that was neither pale or tanned.
Eric was staring forward. To say he was unmoving would be untrue, as he gently shook from side to side. Every few minutes he would suddenly twitch, flick a hand or flutter his eyes. But if one saw him in passing, he could be forgiven for assuming Eric did not move, nor had he for hours. He had remained in the same spot on his bed for over an hour, and his movements were gentle enough, or rare enough, to give the impression of immobility. His eyes carried a blank expression which carried through the air to a blank space on the wall, giving the impression he was unaware of his surroundings. For all appearances, he could be blind, as it seemed as if he saw nothing.
Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, he saw far more than anyone else would have in his place. To him, the sparse light illuminated faces around him, and the shadows hide even more. In total, six figures were apparent to Eric. He had names for each of them. The Fighter, or sometimes the Soldier, was the tallest of them all. He was arrogant, but with strength and skill to back up his arrogance. He stood with a straight back, eyes always forward and challenging, and with arms and chest thick with muscle, and often appeared taller than he was in reality. He had short cropped hair and was constantly clean shaven. He wore a white under shirt and gym shorts which displayed his muscle. When he wasn’t in gym clothes, he wore a suit, or even a military uniform. He desired most of all to be in front of others, giving orders, and he expected them to be followed. Indeed, in most cases his confidence alone was enough to convince others to follow him, if not his impressive array of hand to hand combat skills could intimidate them into obedience. At the moment, he was practicing those skills, demonstrating punches and kicks between trips to the weight set. To Eric’s eyes, each of those strikes connected with an opponent, guilty of some horrid crime and deserving to be beaten, which came into existence only long enough to be hit and disappear.  Sometimes others would come behind the Fighter, followers awaiting his leadership to confront an army of imagined enemies.
Staring at him with barely contained disgust was the Intellectual. He was flabby and overweight, but not extremely fat, and untamed often greasy hair. He was bent forward, and often with a more exaggerated back and forth rocking then Eric’s. He always had a book in his hand, usually non-fiction. He would have worn a suit, but found many materials and all ties uncomfortable, and so constantly wore button up, cotton shirts and dress pants. Where the Fighter was constantly surrounded by enemies to be beaten, the Intellectual was always surrounded by numbers and information. Equations were created and solved in the air around him, along with quotes and facts from the books that he read. He often muttered to himself, going through the same data that followed him.
Next to him, often leaning towards him in a friendly way was another figure. To Eric, he was the Artist, and sometimes the Bohemian. He had a thin, effeminate build and long, well-kept hair which he had bleached to a lighter blond then it was naturally. Currently it was a mix of the natural browninsh-blond Eric had and the lighter blond, a look which the Artist enjoyed and decided to keep. He wore a pink t shirt and tight jeans, though these could sometimes be replaced with far darker clothes and black hair die when the mood suited him. When asked if he was male or female, or gay or straight, both questions he heard regularly, he would simply laugh and say he did not conform to their close minded standards.  He often flirted openly with both sexes. He, too, was often reading, though not as much as the Intellectual, and preferred poetry and novels, both of which he also wrote, rather than the pure information the Intellectual feed upon. When he did not carry a book, he often had a musical instrument. He played various instruments, preferring the piano for its sound, the guitar for its adaptability, and the violin for its haunting sound, though he often fiddled with others. He enjoyed acting, and often spontaneously spouted lines from his favourite plays. Around him were many different sorts of images. For each new idea he encountered, a dozen plot lines played their way around him, showing different possible outcomes for each. He was constantly surrounded by music. If he was not playing it or singing it himself, it seemed to come out of the thin air along with the images.
Barely paying attention to any of the was a figure Eric called the Gamer. He appeared younger than the others, though he was the same age. His exact age was difficult to determine, he could have been an adolescent, a teenager, or simply a youthful adult. His hair was not too long but long enough to cover his ears and often ruffled. He always was looking for a new game or toy, wanting only to enjoy himself. When he wasn’t engaged in some activity with groups, he was playing video games or reading comic books. He was surrounded by a mix of old games being played out, new ways to play his games, and pranks which often involved mild violence or what he called ‘unwanted touching’ of the opposite gender. While it may seem his mind was simply consumed with hedonistic desires, it often hide its own form of brilliance. If taken away from their computerized setting, many of the ideas he had demonstrated strategic and creative thinking that would be called genius if used properly.
Very close to the gamer, in fact sitting on his lap, was the Infant. At the moment, the Gamer was attempting to teach him one of the more youth oriented games he played. The Infant picked it up slowly and preferred simply watching, but the Gamer was his only playmate at the moment, and to the Gamer the Infant was simply the only other non-adult. While the Fighter often seemed taller, the Infant seemed shorter. It was only when standing all the figures side by side that it became clear they were of the same height, apart the Infant appeared to barely make it to the waist of the others. He was not necessarily an infant, he often walked on his own and appeared more like a toddler. However, he was dressed as one, wearing a diaper and coverall pyjamas while sucking on a pacifier. Perhaps due to the Artist’s influence, his clothes were pink, though that could change if another figure decided to dress him differently. Of all the figures, his desires were the most simple, but the hardest to attain. He wanted nothing more than to be comfortable and hopefully comforted. Caring faces, gentle hands, and kind voices was all it would take to make him happy. A soft blanket, full stomach, and a bottle of milk would make him ecstatic. However, these were hard to come by, and the Infant was often sad, pouting when others argues around him, and crying as they yelled.
Each of the figures kept their distance from a final form that rested in the shadows, called the Creature. It was difficult to make out, as it stood behind iron bars that were themselves obscured in darkness. Its presence was made known by an occasionally growling or rattling of chains. The only one of the others that would go near it was the Fighter, who occasionally spoke to it and claimed he could control it if need be. The others were not so certain. When the light did fall on a part of its body, it showed a figure that seemed part animal and part man. It was huge, muscular, and hairy. If it weren’t for the lack of light, images of violence could be seen around it, somewhat similar to the Fighter. However, the Fighter showed images of clean, controlled contact. It spoke of discipline and control, using trained techniques to overcome adversaries. To him, defeating an opponent was something that needed to be done, and could easily be replaced with a cliff that needed to be climbed or a sea to be swam. Damage was only done when necessary, and even then only the bare amount. The violence around the Creature showed no such discipline or restrained. It was random and chaotic. The Creature would tear off limbs, bite faces, and drink the blood that dripped from the wounds, gleefully luxuriating in his opponent’s pain.
As Eric watched, each of these figures were engaged in an argument for control. Specifically, they were arguing for control of Eric’s mind.