It started with a broken tea cup.

         The cup sat at the base of the desk, shattered in about five fragments. Jack stared at the cup for a long time, trying to piece together the events that had led to that moment. It seemed so trivial to think of such a thing. Few would consider this cup, from all other things, to be meaningful in some way. Yet, Jack could not turn his eyes away from the little shards.
         “This means something,” he said to himself, though he could not explain exactly what. It had only the appearance of a broken cup. Upon further inspection, one might see that the cup had once been a pearl white, lined with a vine of delicate lavender lilies. It had once contained a small volume of black tea, which now soaked the carpet in little drops of darkened grey. Otherwise, there seemed nothing extraordinary about the mess; but Jack did not seem tempted to turn his attention away from it.
         Outside his office, the sky was dark and stormy. He could hear the pattering of the rain outside his window, and the dull drumming of faraway thunder. Jack had been there for hours past the end of his shift, awaiting the confirmation of the suspicions that he had had about the office for quite some time. This had become quite a common occurrence for Jack.
         “But why?” he muttered to himself absently, a look of dull disorientation passing over his features. Slowly, he leaned over and picked up the shattered mess at his feet, pricking his finger with one of the pointed shards. Staring at the drop of crimson pooling at the tip of his thumb for a moment, he paused his work. Then quickly, he swept the pieces into the trash, snatched his jacket off the back of his chair, and hurried home.
        

The following evening, Jack sat across the small, cramped living area belonging to his best friend, Harry. Harry was almost eight years Jack’s junior, and he wore his youth as though to act as a foil to Jack’s premature withering. Harry had soft, rounded features and curly locks of golden hair that sprouted upon his head in waves. He was tall, lean, and clever.
         Jack stared at the brown rug that separated the chair he occupied from the couch that Harry lounged upon. He was thoughtful in the long drought of speech which had fallen. Likely, he was considering the thing in the office, whatever it was. It had already killed three of Jack’s coworkers in the last two months. The evidence all pointed towards three natural deaths— a heart attack, an asthma attack, and a bad fall down the stairs —which was why the police were not greatly involved. Jack was not fooled by what the evidence appeared to show. He had seen the thing, for lack of a better term, with his own eyes. Whatever it was, it was a murderer, as Jack was determined to prove.
         Harry watched his friend with a look of concern. “Jack, you’ve got to talk to me. What’s going on with you lately? It’s like I’m taking to a brick wall sometimes.”
         Jack looked up sharply, “Nothing is going on with me, Harry,” he said in a defensive manner. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, there was nothing there.
         “Clearly there is, because I got a call from April last night. She was in a complete panic, asking me if I was with you. I told her I was, but Jack, that’s the last time. I can’t keep covering for you to your wife without even knowing the reason. So just tell me what’s going on.”
         “I don’t know what’s going on, Harry. Things just aren’t adding up.”
         “Have you been to see Dr. Jenkins lately? I’m sure she can prescribe you some more of those pills. They helped you sleep before, didn’t they?”
         Jack shook his head, burying his face in his hands and rubbing his sore eyes. He lifted them and gave Harry a pitiful look of desperation. “I don’t understand it, Harry. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
         “You’re not crazy, Jack,” Harry said without conviction. “If you don’t want to talk to the shrink, and you don’t want to talk to me, then at least talk to April. She’s your wife, which makes her obligated to listen to you.”
         “That isn’t the problem, Harry. I’m not afraid that she won’t listen to me. I’m afraid that she won’t be the only one.”
         Harry’s forehead wrinkled, and he shifted his position. “What do you mean by that?”
         “I feel like there’s someone there,” Jack shook his head as though to erase the words. “No, I feel like there’s someone here, listening … watching … hanging on to every word I say.”
         “Of course, Jack. I’m listening to you-”
         “No!” Jack interrupted, his voice resounding in the void. He recomposed himself, but his hands remained jittering and fiddling on his lap as though he had drunk a whole pot of coffee. Jack looked down at his shaking hands at that moment, and made an effort to force them still.
         He spoke again in a soft voice, so low that Harry had to strain to hear his words. “Someone besides you and I,” he said.
         Harry shook his head. “There’s no one else here.”
         “Not that you can see,” Jack agreed, “but I’m almost certain we are not alone, old friend.” He glanced over his shoulder and then lowered his voice even further. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel as though you are being watched right now, Harry. Tell me you sense it too. There is someone- or perhaps something -listening to this conversation right now as we speak it.”
         “Jack, we’ve been friends for ten years now. I think I know you well enough to be able to tell you when you’re acting like a crackpot, and I’m sorry, but you are. There’s nobody watching us. I live alone. Now stop trying to cover your tracks with this bullshit. Just tell me where you disappear to every night so I can assure your wife that you haven’t found some anonymous mistress to hide out with. That doesn’t sound like you, but right now, that’s exactly what it looks like.”
         “I’m at my office every night, Harry.”
         “Doing what?”
         “I don’t know, just sitting, I guess.” Jack rubbed his temples with his two index fingers. “I can’t remember. No, never mind, I do now. I’ve been … waiting for someone. Or perhaps something. Something the police overlooked.” He shook his head in aggravation, “But whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. Don’t you feel it too, Harry? Like we’re being watched? I can’t shake the feeling.”
         Harry hesitated, before delicately replying, “No, I don’t feel anything at all.”
         Jack heard the pause like an audible noise, and his eyes lit up. “You hesitated. Why?”
         “I don’t know. I mean, sure, now that you mention it, it does seem a little tense in here. But that doesn’t mean you’re being followed.”
         “But that isn’t all, Harry. There is so much more.” Jack’s hands began to shake in a more violent manner. “It’s everything. Everything feels fabricated, Harry. Even my words feel unreal, as though I’m speaking the words of another. It’s as though someone is using my voice for their own thoughts. I feel like a puppet; I say another’s speech, and move when another conducts me to. And there’s these words in my head that are endlessly muttering. It’s like a narration. Nothing feels real.”
         “Calm down,” Harry said, holding cautious hands out to his friend. He spent a brief moment in contemplation before replying, “What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. Of course your words are your own. You’re the one that’s saying them, for God’s sake!”
         “Only because it wants me to.”
         “Because what wants you to?”
         “I don’t know, Harry. Maybe it’s the thing that watches us, maybe it’s something else altogether. Maybe there’s more than one.”
         “This is crazy, Jack. Can you even hear yourself right now?”
         “Yes, I can. And the more I say, the more I realize that it’s all true. I don’t think this is real, Harry.”
         “What isn’t real?”
         “Anything. Everything. Nothing is real.”
         “You and I are real, are we not?”
         “You and I are the most fabricated things in this room! Harry, don’t you realize? This room, on this night, with the two of us conversing, it seems like a movie set. Like a dim shadow of reality, mimicking what is supposed to be a normal conversation between two friends. But it isn’t a normal conversation between friends, is it? You’re accusing me of adultery, while I hide the truth of some mysterious entity I’ve become an amateur tracker of!”
         Thunder crashed outside, interrupting the argument. Rain began to patter, signalling the beginning of another storm. An unidentifiable shape passed by the window, unnoticed by Harry, but not by Jack. The latter shuddered and stared out the rain-speckled glass, out into the dark abyss that awaited them outside.
         “Why,” he muttered to himself, “must it always be stormy?”
         “Wait, what do you mean by ‘mysterious entity’?” Harry asked.
         Jack ignored him. “Harry, if this is real, then answer one question for me. How did you and I meet?”
         Harry raised an eyebrow suspiciously, shaking his head. “It was so long ago. It doesn’t matter.”
         “That’s exactly my point, Harry! It doesn’t matter! And that’s exactly why it does!”
         “You’re talking in riddles!” Harry shouted. Still, he seemed to consider Jack’s question for several minutes, his expression slowly sinking from unaffected calm to agitation. His knee bounced restlessly. Finally, he released a noise of aggravation and said, “I don’t know, Jack! I don’t remember when we met! Now tell me, what does that prove? Enlighten me on how nothing is real because I have a crappy memory!”
         Jack drew his chair across the brown rug until he was seated within a foot of Harry. Then, in a low voice, he muttered, “Harry, you don’t remember how we met because it isn’t important to the story.”
         “What story?”
         “It’s the only possible explanation. Nothing else makes sense.”
         “What story, Jack?”
         Jack looked grave. “Harry, how long have you lived in this house?”
         “Awhile, I guess. I don’t know.”
         “What did you have for breakfast this morning?”
         “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
         “Harry, what are the names of your parents?”
Harry took a very long time with this question. Desperation twisted his features as he fought an unconquerable battle to claim thoughts he had never before considered relevant questions. He looked fearful now. “Is there something wrong with me? Jack, tell me this isn’t just me.”
         “I can’t answer any of those questions either,” Jack admitted. “I can’t remember my wedding day; I only know that there was one. I don’t even know what my family looks like.”
         “What does it mean?”
         “I think it means that those details were never supposed to come up. They didn’t need our full history to tell the story, because it didn’t apply to the conflict.” His voice shook, and his eyes began to fill with moisture. “This is a story, Harry.”
         “Okay, let’s say… Let’s say all of this is true. Let’s say we’re not real people, but rather characters in a story, as you’re suggesting,” Harry said hastily, “If this is fiction, what kind of story is it?”
         “Judging by the weather, I would assume it isn’t a comedy.”
         “You said you were tracking something in your office. There were three murders there recently, I know that much. Oh my god, is this a horror story?”
         “I don’t know, Harry, but I think it’s safe to assume.”
         “Then what’s the conflict? Is it this beast that you think killed those people?”
         “Yes, I believe so,” Jack said. “You and I must have met here to establish some background on the characters.”
         “So what do we do now?” Harry asked. “Do we just go with it?”
         “I’m not sure, Harry. If this is horror, it might mean one of us dies. Or even both of us, depending on the sadistic level that the writer plans to exhibit in this story.”
         “God, don’t say it like that. I don’t like the idea of being a two-dimensional character that someone could slay in bloody vengeance with a smile on his face.”
         Jack looked around him, inspecting the room they sat in.          “Harry, where does that door lead to?”
         Harry turned and saw a wooden door on the left side of the room. It looked perfectly ordinary in every way, and not at all comparable in consequence with the leering fiend that glided past the window once again.
         “I don’t know,” Harry said. “We never drew attention to it until just now. Perhaps it’s the door we came in through?”
         “Does it lead to a hallway, or another room?”
         “I have no idea. I guess it wasn’t a part of the story.”
         “It is now, though, because we talked about it. Maybe now there is something behind it that can change the story. Maybe there’s a weapon we can use against the monster, or an escape route.”
         “Maybe it’s a way out?”
The two men fell into silence. Then, after a long pause, Jack said, “Harry, do you think we should open it?”
Harry did not reply, but both rose silently to their feet. Harry approached the door first, hesitating to even touch the handle.
         “What if this backfires?” he asked. “Maybe we should see where the story goes first.”
         “We can’t stay here, Harry. Not with some monster coming after us.”
         “Maybe it won’t hurt, Jack. If we’re fictional characters, maybe we won’t feel pain in death. Perhaps it will be quick.”
         “We can bleed, Harry. I cut myself in my office, and I felt it. If there’s a chance that we can change this, we have to take it.”
         Their debate was interrupted by a low, bubbling growl, which sounded almost feline. Jack turned his head very slowly, and finally he saw it in full. It was not human, not even close.            The creature stood at least ten feet in height, but was likely even taller than that, as it was hunched over as though its bones were ready to collapse upon themselves. Its skin was slate and reptilian in texture. It had no eyes, but a mouth that stretched two hand lengths around its maw. Both top and bottom jaw were lined with dozens of pointed teeth as long as kitchen knives. Its claws were sword length and curved like fingernails. Otherwise, the beast was humanoid.
         Harry turned and released a gasp of panic, reaching for the door handle without another moment of hesitation. The door did not reveal a weapon, or an escape as the two men had hoped. Instead, they were met by the cold abyss of absolute nothing. It was black as far as they could see, like a doorway to space without the comfort of stars to guide them.
          In their surprise, they had numbed their instincts. There was a strangled cry, lost as breath and voice were stolen. Jack looked to his friend. Through his chest were three, blade-like protrusions, which soaked Harry’s blue t-shirt with crimson. As the blood stretched over his chest, Harry struggled to take in any amount of air that his punctured lungs would allow him. He reached to Jack, but his friend could do nothing to help the younger man as he crumpled to the floor. Jack watched in pure horror, his eyes lifting to the soulless beast as it removed its razor claws from the only man he had ever truly known.
         The blackness felt cold on his back as he shuffled backwards, desperate to put distance between himself and the monster. Then, without further hesitation, Jack plunged into the pitch and it swallowed him greedily.
         He hit solid ground and ran blindly. There was nothing around him as far as he could see. When he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, he saw the door. It was still ajar, with light emitting from the glowing fluorescents of the other room.          The light was so faint, more so than it should have been. The black absorbed it, making it dimmer as Jack ran further into the void. It was as though the darkness shone brighter than the light.
         Jack ran a futile race to a finish line which did not exist. He should not have tried to change the story. He should have realized that he was a figment man of fiction, and that nothing could come from rebellion.
         Jack stopped running. “I am not your puppet,” he said.
         Jack should have realized by now that a puppet was exactly what he was. He was nothing but a marionette to the writer, who had the power to pull his strings and make him dance. Jack had tried everything to cut the ropes that bound him, to achieve a life he felt he had been denied. What life could he live in the Limbo he had found? Was it worth the betrayal he had inflicted upon his wife? Or the sacrifice of a friend?
         “You would have killed him anyway!” Jack cried uselessly. “I know this is a horror story and I didn’t mean for Harry to die!”
         Jack was mistaken, of course, in his assumption. If he had known that his friend would have lived, had he conformed to the plotline, would he have acted differently? It was too late for him now, though, as he had made his choice. Jack had chosen to fight the force which created him, and only now would he realize his own insignificance. What was a protagonist without his story? Jack was just a character now; a name and a couple of traits scribbled onto scrap paper. Without his conflict, he was meaningless. Unfortunately, too late did he realize his error.
       Or was it?
       “You’re doubting yourself!” Jack shouted, his face angled upwards as though the words in his head belonged to some sacred god above. “If it isn’t too late, how do I fix it?”
       Jack knew what he had to do, but it would mean going against everything he had come to believe in. Every action he had taken in defiance would become null. He himself would be swallowed by the void that surrounded him as everything was erased from existence. To escape his premature end, he would have to go back to the beginning.
         Jack fell to his knees in defeat. He knew he could not win the battle he had engaged in. He hung his head and felt a tear roll down his cheek. There was nothing more he could do, so he accepted his loss with as much integrity as he could muster.
         “Fine,” Jack said, “you win.”

         A rumble of thunder, resounding through the animated streets of downtown was what awoke him. He blinked several times, feeling disoriented in the place that was so clearly not his warm bed. Rubbing his eyes, Jack gathered his bearings. He was in his office still, though he could not quite recall what he had been doing. He recalled the murders, and the creature that he had seen between the crack in the bathroom stall. Feeling fearful, he bolted upright in his chair, knocking various items off his desk. He heard a piercing crack, and his eyes turned down to the floor. There, shattered in about five large pieces of white and lilac porcelain, was a tea cup.