Daily writing prompt
If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?
DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE
An aggressively personal breakdown of alter egos, revenge spirals, and why fictional characters are one emotional snap away from disaster.
Ever watch a movie, read a book, or binge a show and think, Wow, this character really needs therapy? Like… immediately. They have pills for that. And boundaries. And emotional support animals. But instead of signing up for BetterHelp, fictional characters usually take the scenic route: they grow an alter ego, light their lives on fire, and call it “justice.”
Sometimes you’re just sitting there, watching a perfectly normal person start talking to their dead father’s ghost, and all you can think is: They are so fucked.
Let’s talk about that.
The Alter Ego: Fancy Latin for “Oh no, he’s talking to himself again”
There’s something darkly satisfying about a character cracking right down the middle. Not like “oops, I’m having a rough day” cracking—but full-blown talking to their reflection in the mirror and the reflection talks back cracking.
Dr. Jekyll doesn’t just dabble in science—he mainlines Victorian repression and conjures a walking midlife crisis named Hyde. And Tyler Durden? He’s what happens when toxic masculinity drinks four espressos and finds Nietzsche on Reddit.
“Man is something that shall be overcome.” – Nietzsche
Too bad most characters take that as an invitation to become unhinged vigilantes instead of, say, doing the shadow work.
Alter egos don’t just show what characters fear—they show what they secretly want: power, escape, freedom from polite society. It’s the part of them that isn’t okay with playing nice anymore. It’s also the part that starts the fires and says “oops” later.
Holmes and Moriarty: A Gentleman’s Guide to Mutual Obsession
Sherlock Holmes and Professor Moriarty are technically enemies. But let’s be honest: they’re intellectual soulmates with unresolved tension and no HR department to report to. If Holmes is logic in a waistcoat, Moriarty is chaos in a cravat. One solves crimes. The other is the crime.
Holmes says he’s repulsed by Moriarty’s criminal mind. But let’s call it what it is: obsession. Like, we-should-talk-about-this-in-couples-therapy obsession.
“He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.” – Nietzsche again, because of course.
Their final tango at Reichenbach Falls? That’s not a climax—it’s a breakup scene disguised as a death drop.
Werewolves, Hulks, and People Who Should Not Be Left Unsupervised
Let’s talk about werewolves: the OG metaphor for “Oops, my emotions got out.” Classic lit was obsessed with this stuff. Guy seems chill—until the moon rises and suddenly he’s shirtless, hairy, and eating villagers. It’s like puberty, but worse.
And then there’s Bruce Banner. Poor guy just wants to be left alone to do his science. But noooo—every time someone provokes him, he turns into a giant green rage machine in cut-off jeans. He told them not to make him angry. They did. Now there’s structural damage.
Each transformation screams what Carl Jung quietly suggested:
“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”
Which is a very classy way of saying, “Congrats, you’re the werewolf now.”
But let’s not forget—masks don’t just hide. Sometimes they liberate.
“The mask is the instrument of the power that makes one see and speak.” – Michel Foucault
In other words: sometimes putting on the cape, the claws, or the face paint isn’t about hiding who you are—it’s about finally saying what you were never allowed to. That’s why Batman isn’t just Bruce in costume. He’s Bruce off-leash.
The real question is: when the mask comes off… what’s left?
Revenge: It’s Like Therapy, But With Body Counts
Here’s the thing about revenge stories: they used to be neat and tidy. Somebody wrongs you, you plot, you avenge, you feel… better? At least that’s how it worked in the classics. The Count of Monte Cristo is the gold standard of “I was wrongfully imprisoned, now I’m back with receipts.”
But modern revenge stories? Oh, they’re emotionally messy. There’s no neat payoff. Just guilt, trauma, and a long trail of ex-friends.
Walter White didn’t just want to “provide for his family.” He wanted to feel like the universe owed him something—and when it didn’t pay up, he became the universe’s problem. Watching him morph into Heisenberg is like watching your dad get really into crypto and start calling himself an “alpha.”
Amanda Clarke from Revenge isn’t much better. She goes full Machiavelli in heels. She infiltrates high society to take down the people who framed her dad—and in the process, slowly turns into one of them. You know it’s bad when even your revenge plot has subplots.
“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” – Confucius (or at least the internet version of him)
Revenge doesn’t heal. It haunts. And if your therapist charges $200 an hour, revenge charges your soul.
Why Can’t We Be More Like Shaft?
Let’s take a breather from all the tortured brooding and talk about someone who handles his business without spiraling into an existential crisis every five minutes: John Shaft.
Shaft is revenge fiction’s cool older cousin who doesn’t need an alter ego because he’s already whole. He doesn’t slip into madness, grow claws, or adopt a second name—he just walks into a room, says something smooth, and gets stuff done. No inner monologue. No moral agony. Just grit, justice, and style.
Here’s what makes Shaft different: he’s angry, sure—but he owns it. His anger doesn’t consume him; it fuels him. He doesn’t lose himself in vengeance because he never lets anyone else define who he is. He knows the system is broken. He knows justice is often DIY. But he doesn’t get lost in it. He stays Shaft—and somehow makes leather trench coats look like emotional armor.
Honestly? Watching most of these fictional characters unravel, you start to wonder:
*Are psychiatrists who Curtis Mayfield was talking about in his classic song “I’m Your Pusherman”?
Because half these people don’t need a gun—they need a prescription and a twice-weekly check-in with someone who says:
“Know thyself.” – Socrates, probably side-eyeing half the MCU right now.
And here’s the kicker: Shaft doesn’t need a mask to be powerful. He doesn’t hide behind a symbol. He is the symbol. While most characters fracture under the weight of dual identities, Shaft walks in fully integrated—what Foucault might call power without disguise.
“Power is not an institution, and not a structure… it is the name that one attributes to a complex strategical situation.” – Foucault, probably watching Shaft with admiration and fear.
Shaft is the complex strategical situation. Everyone else is just playing dress-up.
Final Thoughts: You vs. You (And Sometimes a Werewolf)
At the end of the day, alter egos and revenge stories aren’t really about villains. They’re about us—our insecurities, our grudges, our late-night fantasies of telling someone off and walking away in slow motion while something explodes in the background.
These stories hit because they remind us how hard it is to be a person. A person with baggage. With rage we swallow. With wounds we dress up as ambition. We all want to believe we’d be the Shaft in our own story—cool, unshakable, morally centered with a killer soundtrack—but let’s be honest: most of us are two stressful emails away from turning into Mr. Hyde.
“Where there is power, there is resistance.” – Foucault
Whether it’s the beast inside, the grief-fueled vendetta, or the charming psychopath in your mirror, every character in these stories is resisting something: society, morality, themselves.
And some of them lose.
Most of them do.
But then there’s Shaft—no split self, no mask, no melodrama. Just a man who knows the system’s rigged, knows who he is, and shows up anyway.
Maybe that’s the real power.
Maybe the rest of us are just monologuing in the dark.
Memoirs of Madness 