If We Were Villains

Prologue from a Proscenium Arch

Dearest Reader, I confess that as I sit to pen this missive, I am not entirely sure where to begin. My life has been a play of sorts, with acts and scenes etched into the annals of my memory.

I am Oliver Marks, once an impassioned student of the dramatic arts. You may not know of the hallowed halls of Dellecher Classical Conservatory where I honed my craft, nor the band of players I called my family.

But within these cloistered walls, a tragedy unfolded that bound my fate to those I loved and loathed alike. I imagine you, like most, have encountered your own stage, complete with a cast of characters that have danced through your life, leaving their indelible marks upon your soul.

In our struggles, we find common ground, for life does not discriminate in its dispensing of trials and tribulations. Perhaps you've worn a mask to conceal your true self, much as I once did, adopting a role that never quite fit.

I invite you to consider the moments when you've felt most alive, whether they were cloaked in joy or steeped in sorrow. It is through these moments that we truly learn who we are.

And so, with a deep breath and a quivering heart, I shall endeavor to unveil the story which has defined me, in hopes that it may reflect, even if just a sliver, the essence of your own journey.

Act I: The Bonds That Tie

Life at Dellecher was a tapestry of tightly woven friendships and rivalries, a place where art and life blurred indistinguishably. We, a band of seven, were inseparable, each assuming a role that transcended the stage: the hero, the villain, the tyrant, the ingénue.

We breathed Shakespeare and lived through his words, never anticipating how deeply they would cut into the fabric of our reality. You, too, have felt the tug of relationships that both uplift and unravel you, have you not? Bonds that once seemed unbreakable, yet somehow began to fray at the edges when tugged by the relentless forces of love, envy, and ambition.

Richard, the golden boy, as charming as he was manipulative, always took center stage, while I—his perpetual understudy—lurked in his shadow, content but craving the light. Our lives were a delicate balance, each of us playing our part until the script we followed betrayed us.

Have you not also faced a moment, dear reader, when the role you dutifully fulfilled no longer defined you, when the script you followed led you astray? It is in these moments we stand at the precipice of change, for better or worse.

Act II: The Descent into Tragedy

Like any classic tragedy, the seeds of our downfall were sown early, watered by our own hands. We reveled in excesses of the flesh and spirit, blind to the creeping ivy of destruction that wound itself around our ankles.

There were nights of Dionysian revelry where we lost ourselves to the darkness that lurked within. Have you, too, tasted the intoxicating nectar of forbidden fruits, only to find yourself ensnared by consequences unforeseen? The pivotal night I speak of, the one that would forever alter the course of our lives, was shrouded in a tempest both literal and metaphorical.

A life was taken—a dreadful accident, we told ourselves, a byproduct of youthful folly. Yet in that act, we each became Iago, weaving a tapestry of deceit that would ensnare us all.

Dear reader, have you not also found yourself caught in a web of lies, each thread pulled with the hope of salvation, only to bind you tighter?

Act III: The Burden of Guilt

In the aftermath, we were but shadows of ourselves, haunted by the specter of our collective guilt. The stage we shared became a gallows, each performance a public reckoning of the soul.

I see now, as I share this with you, that you might have shouldered burdens of your own. Those silent, crushing weights that bend the spine and cloud the mind, they are not yours to bear alone.

Yet we often insist on carrying them, do we not, as if penance could be found in the solitude of suffering? I found myself taking solace in the quiet companionship of James, whose gentle nature belied the turmoil beneath. Our solace in one another's silent understanding offered a balm, though it could not erase the scars.

You, too, have known the solace of companionship, the silent understanding that passes between souls when words are rendered inadequate. It is in these moments of connection that we find a fragment of peace amid the storm.

Act IV: The Reckoning

The truth, as it has a wont to do, clawed its way to the surface, tearing through the final act of our charade. The law, blind and unyielding, demanded its due, and I was cast in the role of the sacrificial lamb.

Yet, in that sacrifice, a strange sense of freedom was found. Have you not felt the paradoxical liberation that comes with the relinquishing of a long-held secret, the catharsis of confession that purges the soul? Behind bars, the world narrowed to concrete and steel, yet my mind roamed free, traversing the landscapes of memory and regret.

It was there, in that cell, that I finally came to understand the cost of our artifice. You, dear reader, have also paid a price for the roles you've played, the masks you've worn.

It is a universal toll, exacted upon all who dare to tread the boards of this grand stage we call life.

Act V: The Aftermath

Upon my release, the world had moved on, indifferent to the play that had so consumed us. I returned to a life dismantled by time and tarnished by infamy.

Yet, I found solace in the simple act of living authentically, no longer a character in a play but the author of my own story. Perhaps you, too, are authoring a story anew, having shed the roles that no longer serve you, embracing the freedom to rewrite your narrative.

In the quietude of my new life, I often reflect on the past, not with nostalgia, but with the clarity that comes from distance. The lessons etched into my being are part of me, inseparable from the man I have become.

And you, my companion in reflection, are aware of your own lessons learned, the insights carved from the bedrock of experience. We are shaped by the events that unfold around us, but more so by the manner in which we navigate them.

Epilogue: A Stage Set for Reflection

Now, as I step out of the persona of Oliver Marks, I implore you to seek out the original tale that has inspired this letter. "If We Were Villains" by M.

L. Rio is a masterpiece that delves into the complexities of life, art, and the human condition.

It is a story of friendship, love, betrayal, and the indelible impact of literature on our lives. In its pages, you will find echoes of your own experiences, the shadows of your own struggles, and perhaps even the catharsis you seek.

By reading it, you will step into a world that, while foreign, resonates with the universal themes of our shared humanity. You will explore the depths to which passion can drive us and the heights to which love can lift us.

I leave you with this recommendation, not as a teacher, but as a fellow traveler on the winding path of life. In the end, may you discover, as I have, that even amidst the darkest acts, there is light to be found, lessons to be learned, and a new role waiting in the wings for those brave enough to take it up.

With a bow and a flourish, Oliver Marks.