The Typist.

The taps of shivering fingers on the keys of an old, no, ancient typewriter echoed in a room. A big room, however this may be because of the total lack of furniture, except for a table, a chair and a typewriter. The walls were white, so was the floor. There was no roof. The clouds hovered over the room in sadness.

The man sitting on the chair was smartly dressed; a crisp shirt and a pair of equally crisp trousers with a belt to compliment them. And this is how it has been for a long time. His face was a cocktail of emotions; some say that there were none. He has short hair, sharp features and if you observe closely; tiny stubbles poking out of his jaw line and above his upper lip. The ones who were fortunate enough to meet him, let alone speak to him were always puzzled and will never fail to ask him this question:

“What do you exactly do for a living?”

He in turn will be puzzled at this question and often spend countless hours thinking of this particular question. What does he do for a living? What is living? Something one does to continue one’s life? If so, then what is life? His head throbs at the sheer amount of inquiries that arises from a seemingly innocent question. He hated questions. It is something so intrusive, so disrespectful, tearing open ones past and revealing one’s evil, it causes chaos and arguments, it is destructive. Some questions that is. He sighed and continued typing. A knock on a non-existent door. He walked towards it and twisted the invisible knob.

There were two people. A man; dishevelled, reeking of liquor, the carbon copy of a homeless drunk. The other, an elegant woman in a flowing dress, her scent of lavender was intoxicating yet pleasing, the innocence that gleamed like jewels in her eyes were astounding. They walked past the typist, the woman sat down on a chair which had suddenly appeared; the man poured himself a drink from a bottle that had also mysteriously materialized. They looked at him and smiled. He frowned and went back to his never-ending typing. Without even looking at the guest he asked their names.

The woman smiled ever so sweetly and said;

“I go by the name Somnium. A pleasure to meet you.”

The man burped and lit a cigarette. In between the puffs, he managed to squeeze out his name.

“I,” he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, “am,” a cough, “Veritas.”

The typist massaged his temple with the tip of his index fingers and closed his eyes. First the question. Now this. Two uninvited freaks from nowhere waltz into his room and made themselves at home. They even have weird names. Somehow he knew that along the line of his life, uninvited guest with weird names spells trouble. Yet, he decided to ignore them and continue working.

The guests never did anything. Except for the man, what’s his name… Veritas, yes, he kept on drinking. Silently the typist wondered if he would ever get drunk. Somnium sat on her chair and was as pretty as the stars that crowned the moon. She was perfect, the typist thought. A week passed. Since the arrival of the guests, the typewriter has been idle, a thin layer of dust slept on the keys, the paper wondered when will be the day it will be tainted by the ink. The typist sat on his chair and stared into thin air. He cannot work with two pair of eyes set on him. He had never seen the guests since the day they decided to become the typist’s lifelong companions. Yet he knew they were eyeing him, waiting for him to do something. It’s like a sixth sense to the typist. He knows when people are watching him, judging him, spreading lies about him behind his back. It helped him realise the ugliness of the public; therefore he made a decision to be a recluse.

Finally, after months of waiting, the guests spoke. Both of them spoke at the same time which brought a chill to the typist’s spine. He twirled around for the first time and his muscles screamed in protest. Somnium and Veritas were now chanting; both were asking, no, ordering the typist to do the same thing, one voice acted as an echo to the other, complimenting and deafening.

“Ask us a question.”

That was all they said. The typist ignored them, shut his ears and sang out loud, sat in the corner furthest from them but to no avail. Their voice pierced his eardrums and the information sent to his brain was overwhelming. He gave up. He knew what he was going to ask them. The only question he could think of those days.

“What do you do for a living?”

Both of them laughed out loud. Something about the way the guests seem to speak at the same time induced fear in the typist’s heart. He sighed. Somnium adjusted her hair and stood up. She walked almost painfully slow in the direction of the typist and brought her full lips towards the typist’s ear. The scent of lavender once again intoxicated the typist and he had to suppress himself from gagging.

“I am the one everybody looks for in times of trouble. I make them smile and make their wildest desires come true. They walk hand in hand as their problems seem to float away.” She walked back towards her seat in the same manner and brushed away any foreign material that had settled onto her seat in her absence with a wave of her handkerchief. The typist frowned. He did not understand anything Somnium had said. It was only then he realised that Veritas was staggering towards him, the stench of liquor substituted the intoxicating scent of lavender.

“I hurt the people I come across. However, in my wake, I also bring forth enlightenment. Many fail to see it and deny me but they will always come to terms with my existence. Most of them do not live to experience this, they live and die denying me. Now, typist, ask us the next question.”

The typist struggled to breathe with the stench of Veritas. Not only he reeked of liquor, he also had bad breath and an equally toxic body odour. The typist was forced to use a paper to banish the smell, much to Veritas’s amusement. He thought of the next question he wanted to ask these mysterious guests of his. He realised that they may be there to answer the questions that had been burdening him for the length of his life. He played along.

“What is living?” he smiled. Would he get the answer? Would he be finally liberated with the answers that were about to be revealed to him? Only time would tell.

Again Somnium approached him. With her, the overpowering scent of lavender returned.

“Living is being happy all the time, achieved by any means necessary to a person. That is living.”

“Living is bearing with the cruelty of life and learning from it. Living is learning from one’s mistakes and growing stronger from it. That is living.” Veritas murmured.

The typist knew it was his cue for the next question. “If that is so, then what is life then?”

“To understand life, one must experience all that one desires. That is the only way to know the meaning of life.” Somnium glided back to her seat, like a lost soul searching for its body.

“To understand life, one must experience hardship, suffering and anguish. One must be on the verge of death to fully understand what life means. That is the only way to know the meaning of life.” Veritas took a long drag from his cigarette.

The typist was now at a lost for words. What know? Both of the answers given wasn’t satisfactory to him, if what they said was true, he would need a lifetime to understand and verify what both of them had said. Then it occurred to him, the final question. Somehow he knew it was the final question.

“Considering what both of you have said, I need to ask you a final question.” Veritas and Somnium nodded and both of them gave him a gesture to go on. He smiled and asked; “Why live?”

The typist mouth gaped at what happened after he had asked the question. Veritas and Somnium started to dance, they kept a constant radius form each other and the tempo increased. It was as if they were dancing to a music that cannot be heard by the typist. As the guests danced faster around each other, the distance between them grew shorter and shorter until they finally fused together. The figure that had substituted the guest was no longer Veritas the drunk or Somnium the perfect. It was someone very familiar to the typist. It was himself.

“Pleased to meet you, I am Terrigenus. I am known to the world as many, for I am many. I am Nefas and I am also Sanctus. I am Turpis as well as Décor. I am Deus and I am Diabolus. I am you as you are me.” He took a bow and cleared his throat. “The answer to your final question is simple. You live to find out the answers. You live to understand. You live to come to terms with your defects, you also live to learn to live the life of a peasant when you can afford to be a king.” He smiled and the chair that Somnium was sitting on disappeared. “Well, I’ll be taking off now. I have kept you busy for quite awhile now haven’t I? Please accept my apologies.”

With that, he was gone. The typist was unable to mouth any words. His questions were answered yet he felt so empty. He turned and faced the typewriter and typed the following on the paper which was relieved to be finally stamped with ink.

‘Human’.

*End*

A/N: Gaaaahhhhhh!!!!!!! God this has got to be the hardest fucking piece I have ever written in my life. The Latin is beyond fucked up, kudos to Freelang’s English-Latin dictionary for the help with some words I wasn’t sure of. I know you guys must be fucking zonked right now. Chill, read the translations below and maybe you’ll understand. If you don’t I’m sorry, maybe this is too deep for you. This is beyond what a normal teen is supposed to write... I need to get my head checked.

Veritas: Reality, Somnium: Dream, Terrigenus: The one who is from earth; human, Nefas: Sin, Sanctus: Saint, Turpis: Ugly, Décor: Beauty, Deus: God, Diabolus: Devil.

Comments mucho appreciated. Or I’ll set the Munchkins on you. I swear I will.