Protagonist: Chapter 1

Never Enough Lasagna
Chapter 24: Murdered


I stared up at the ceiling, numb. I felt nothing at all, even as my blood pooled under me. I had a strange compulsion to fetch a towel, to try to get the blood off the carpet before it got stained. No, it was probably already stained. This would take one hell of a dry cleaning job to remove, the way I was bleeding. It seems strange to think about a thing like that, but my mind wouldn't focus. Nothing but the most trivial things mattered.

"Victor," someone gasped. "Victor, say something! Please!"
"Who… who is that?" I managed. "Gail?"
"Yes, it's me." I felt her hand on my face, heedless of the gushing blood. "Thank God you're alright," she said with deliberate gentleness. "I was in the living room and I heard the crash, and then the alarm went off- I thought it was just a false alarm, but then I came out and you…"

"Gail," I interrupted. "Gail, call 911. Please. I think I'm really hurt…"
"Of course," she said, leaping to her feet. "The phone-" I couldn't turn my head to watch, but I could hear her sprinting for the cordless one on the table. It was strange, though- the sound was so much fainter than it should have been. She could only have been a few feet away. I listened to the call, trying to make out her words, but they were becoming muted, distant.

The ceiling was always such a drab color. Pure, blank white. Or maybe it was cream. Which raised the question of what the difference was. I wondered if I would have chosen a different paint color if I had come this close to death back then. It sure does put your priorities in order.

A light shaking- was that Gail again? Surely I hadn't insulted the ceiling out loud. The cream color had been her suggestion, after all. Maybe she took it personally. I hoped not. It was such a silly thing, to be so upset about the color of the ceiling. But no, she was speaking to me- I could barely understand her this time.

"It's okay, Victor. The ambulance is coming. You're going to be alright."
Oh, that was right. The whole being wounded thing.
"No," I gasped, "I don't think I will…"
"Don't say that, Victor!" I heard her sob, and I realized that she knew I was right.
"It's true…"
"Why?" she leaned over me, and I caught a flash of her face, shining with wetness, as my vision faded.

"It just seems… fitting somehow. Like the end of a story…" It was fitting. Dramatic, heart-wrenching. And warm, too. So warm and soft, the carpet, and I was tired. I felt like I should be doing something, but I couldn't think. It would wait until I rested. I would know what to do when I woke up. I just barely noticed the fading sensation of a hand squeezing my own as sleep came.

The End











* * *

Mary Sue: a character that has been created to serve as a writer's wish fulfillment fantasy; a character lacking complexity, with no flaws and only a stock personality.


Protagonist
Chapter 1: Informational Pamphlets

"Good morning, Victor Silveira. Have you finished recovering from your transition?"

I groaned softly at the intruding female voice, trying to shut my eyes tighter as if it would help me go back to sleep. My head throbbed; it felt like if I tried to sit up or even open my eyes, my skull would shatter. This voice, however pleasant it was, would have to wait. I just wasn't getting up yet.

"Our apologies, sir, but we have limited reception space," the voice added urgently. "Chapter 11, Paragraph 6 of The Laws requires that all characters be released from the recovery rooms within three hours of arrival to prevent backup. Furthermore, any leftover exhaustion or discomfort you are experiencing will pass once you are fully conscious."

I felt a hand on my arm, then another behind my head; they pushed me upright while my head pulsed in protest. I forced my eyes open; it felt like I'd been out for days. The room swam as my vision focused again.

"What's going on…?" I asked, slurring the words. "Why does my head hurt?"

"Please remain calm, sir. You must still be disoriented." I turned towards the voice, whose body was now becoming steadily less blurry. It was a young woman in a dark blue uniform; if I had to guess, I would have said she was a nurse. Of course, most nurses didn't boast purple hair or orange eyes. I stared for a moment and then dismissed it as a question for later, later being whenever it hurt less to think. But she was definitely a nurse of some kind, which meant bad things for my head. I put a hand to my temple, but the pain was already receding.

"Not to worry," the woman advised stoically, "some lingering pain is normal and expected upon arrival. Very few people get here painlessly, but your wounds don't come with you. It just takes some time for your body to recognize that it is no longer hurt."

That was too much to take in for the moment, so I quickly took a look around. I was in a room that was made entirely of stone; the walls were a dark, foreboding gray, with identical ceilings and floors to match. A pair of torches hung by the doorway, and another one behind my head, but the room was much brighter than firelight could account for. I puzzled over this for a moment before finding the reason- there were electric lights as well, set into the ceiling like standard house lights. They could have been ordinary 60-watt bulbs. To make the contrast even stranger, an oak table with a modern desktop computer on it sat beside the wall to my right. It was even using a familiar screensaver- that one with the wispy multi-colored comet shape.

As I scratched my head in confusion, the nurse, or whatever she was, grabbed my arm again. "Please, I need you to proceed to the welcoming hall. We have other arrivals to accommodate."

"Wait a minute," I said. "What kind of welcoming hall? Where am I? And what happened to me?"
"Oh, you mean the lingering pain?"
"Yes, the lingering pain!" I pushed myself off of the bed, which I now saw was a plain piece of furniture with a soft, white mattress that made it resemble a hotel bed. "What caused that? Why is that 'normal?' What is that left over from?" I demanded.

"Oh," she said simply, "you mean your death."
I froze, staring at her. "My… oh no. No, no, you've got to be kidding."
"Nope," she said cheerily. "Death by blunt object. Some kind of homicide."
"What?! How?" I asked desperately.

"Um… let me just check the record." She squinted at the computer screen, reading off the data it presented. "Aha… name: Victor Nathaniel Silveira. Time of death: 4:36 AM this morning. Cause of death: crowbar to head at high velocity."

"Wait… that's right, there was a burglar or something…"

"Dying words: 'It just seems fitting somehow, like the end of a story.' That's a nice touch, you know, when you consider that the only reason you were able to make it here at all is that you died before your story ended. Had your author chosen to put 'The End' just a little sooner, you'd have been killed off for real."

"Right, that's great-"

"Time of reception: 4:37 AM this morning. Time of release… now. So about 7:40 or so." She turned towards me again. "In case you're suffering from any form of amnesia, we have the rest of your personal information here as well. Would you like me to print it for you?"

"No, no, I remember just fine. But could you just explain-"

"I'm sorry, sir, I need to prepare this room for the next arrival. Right this way." She flung the heavy, wooden door open and pushed me into the hall. It too was made of stone, with torches and lightbulbs placed at regular intervals. Doors like the one I had just been shoved through lined the walls, stretching away to where the hallway turned a corner and vanished.

"The welcoming hall and registration facilities are to your left and down the stairs," the woman informed me. "There are also restrooms available just beyond the welcoming hall, if you need them. Now please proceed as directed until you reach the registration desks, where you will be given further instructions on how to complete your paperwork-"

"Wait, I just want to know where this is!"

"-And if you have any questions that our staff members can't answer, you can find knowledgeable Apidarios representatives at the service counter outside the Gate Corridor. Welcome to Tyragus and please enjoy your time here!" With that, she vanished back into the room I'd just been expelled from and shut the door.

Some help she'd been- I had no answers, no explanation of where I was, and not even a clue as to why I had wound up here. All I had was that one name she had mentioned- Tyragus. Either that was the name of this building I was in, or else it was… something else. A city? A country? Something else entirely? I had nothing to go off of. No, that wasn't entirely true. She had told me where the stairs were. In this crazy place, it seemed that I could only head for this "welcoming hall."

As I made my way along the hallway, I found that it was bustling with people, all headed the same way I was. I tried to find a pattern in the crowd, some distinguishing feature that would tell me what I had in common with them that could bring me here, but my efforts were wasted. First I would glimpse a tall, armored knight as he shoved his way past me, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword every time somebody jostled him. Then I'd pass a slouching youth with vacant eyes, or an old man gazing thoughtfully into space. There were people with outrageous hair colors and scars in strange patterns. Some bore strange weapons that looked like hybrids of countless other things, while others looked completely defenseless. Yet most out of place in this crowd were the people who looked perfectly normal, with modern clothes and the same look of confusion that I must have been wearing as well.

If that nurse's information was correct- and it seemed to be -then I was dead, and it was safe to assume that these people were too. But I wasn't clear on what that actually meant. Nobody here was a rotting corpse; nobody was even injured. And this didn't look a lot like heaven. Still, it had to be an afterlife of some kind, or at least a stage between life and afterlife. Yet there was that other thing the nurse had said- if my story had ended before I died, I wouldn't be here. Well, it made sense on a literal level. As hard as I tried to fool readers, I had always been perfectly aware that I was a fictional character. Everyone in my story knew it. I think all characters do. But my author had killed me and then my story had ended. Why? It was so sudden, so uncalled for. It wasn't a good ending at all. Why cut off the plot like that? And why did that bring me to this Tyragus place?

All these questions tugged at my awareness as I followed the crowd down the stairs and into an enormous room. I couldn't see the entire space over the heads of the people in front of me, as I had never been very tall, but I could tell it stretched for quite some distance. It was mostly the same gray stone, but now embellished with decorations like the hanging tapestries that stretched from the floor to the high ceilings. Torches lined the walls while chandeliers- some containing candles and some containing lightbulbs -dangled from above. The room was well lit and inviting, despite the monotonous stonework.

Up ahead, I saw the crowd splitting off into a dozen or so lines, all of them leading to wooden tables covered in papers. It dawned on me that this was some kind of bureaucratic process, the kind that is characterized by inefficiency and too many obscure words. What was I doing there, anyway? Was I supposed to have some kind of form with me? I checked my pockets, but I didn't even have my wallet. I remembered leaving it on the counter of my kitchen; I would probably never get it back, not unless my author asked another character pick it up and then killed them to send it to me- but no, my story had ended, hadn't it? Nobody could reach me anymore. I would face the paperwork alone and without any sort of identification or money, at least once I actually reached the desks.

As much as I cringed at the thought of having to wait through these lines for stuffy officials to complete some "registration" for me, it soon seemed like that was not to be the case. The lines sped forward, and I was quickly halfway along one myself, headed for one of those mysterious wooden tables. Maybe it was the sheer number of desks and lines, or perhaps these people (whoever they were) had actually discovered the secret to efficiency. But my fears were not put to rest. What was I supposed to say when I got to the front? What was I even here for?

"Sir?"

I snapped back to reality. While I had been worrying, the line had carried me all the way to the front. There was nothing between me and the wooden desk but ten or so feet of empty space. I stepped forward and took a seat in a chair that had been left for me. On the other side of the desk was a thin man with glasses and a pen behind each ear. He spoke first; his sentences came quickly and sounded rehearsed. He had clearly delivered them many times.

"Welcome to Tyragus, and good morning," he recited while shuffling around some papers. "We, the staff of Castle Limbo, are committed to ensuring that your transition into life in Tyragus is a quick and smooth one. Beside me are some informational pamphlets that you may take with you if you are unfamiliar with Tyragus. They offer an overview of our history and geography. But before you open those, you need to provide me with some information while I fill out this form for registration of citizenship." He extracted a salmon-colored paper from the pile on his desk and pulled a pen down from his left ear.

"Citizenship?" I asked.

"Yes, citizenship. Even though Tyragus is not technically defined as a country
or nation, it remains a sovereign entity and it is necessary for the administration to have access to records containing the information requested by this form. Now, your full name?"

"Victor Nathaniel Silveira. Wait, so if Tyragus isn't a country, what is it?"
"Gender?"
"You have to ask? Male."
"It's protocol. Age?"
"Twenty-nine. Are you going to answer my question or what?"
"The informational pamphlets are on your right. Major or minor character?"
I paused. "Wait, what?"
"Major or minor character? Or do you not know?"
"No, no- major character," I told him. "I was the protagonist, actually. But the fourth wall…"

"You're not in a story anymore. You have no need to be concerned." He continued to fill out the form for a moment, presumably with details he didn't have to ask about like the date and time, before speaking again. "Very well, Victor, that's all I need from you now. Please proceed to the sorting room through the doors behind me. And consider grabbing an informational pamphlet as you go." He gave me a practiced smile and beckoned the next person in line over to him. I rose and took a pamphlet as I looked for the doors I needed.

They were impossible to miss. Aside from being large and ornate, they stood at the dead center of the wall behind the desks. People trickled through them as they finished at the tables, passing into the room beyond. Clutching my pamphlet, I followed hesitantly. I wanted to simply unfold the pamphlet and read it in an effort to figure out what was going on here, but it would have to wait for a moment. Over the past ten minutes or so, I had developed an urgent need to visit the restrooms. I kept my eyes open for them as I left the welcoming hall.

The doors led to another, shorter hallway that was mostly empty except for the bathrooms I was seeking and another set of doors at its far end. The crowd was thinner here, and I only had to push past a couple of people to reach the men's room and relieve myself- which is one of those things that you just don't narrate. I had learned that from experience. Having finished, I washed my hands at the sink before pausing in front of the mirror, arrested by a familiar impulse. For a moment, I debated whether I should do it or not- it seemed that I wasn't in a story anymore, after all, but old habits die hard. I gave in and, studying the reflection, began my description.

My face was roundish and maybe even vaguely chubby; it had subtle features and a pair of ordinary brown eyes- which, ironically, seemed to be abnormal in this place. My hair, which was a brownish-blond color, stuck up messily on several sides of my head. As I splashed some water on it to try to make it stay down, I was silently thankful that I kept it short- it was much easier to manage. My eyes wandered away from my face and down the rest of my body; I was a bit out of shape, perhaps, but certainly not fat. I wore a plain green t-shirt and jeans, which were rather simple for my tastes but I had been wearing them last night while everything else was in the washing machine. It suddenly occurred to me that these, along with the socks and shoes on my feet, were now the only clothes I owned.

At least my ability to narrate my own appearance had not become rusty, though I had never really liked the info-dump style. It was my author's preference, and I learned it from him. Still, I felt no pride in my experience as a narrator today. Instead I was disturbed by the realization I was now returning to: I had nothing. I had arrived in Tyragus empty-handed- no money, no belongings, and perhaps worst of all, no hygiene supplies. Thank the author I never wore contacts, though I had precious little else to thank him for at the moment. Worse still, I was alone in some kind of medieval office run by bureaucrats. But I had at least one small comfort in the form of the pamphlet I still held in my hand. At last I could get some clear answers to my questions.

Not yet ready to step back out into the crowded hallway, I flipped the pamphlet open right there and read the introductory paragraph:

"Welcome to Tyragus! As a new resident of this world, you'll find that the rich and varied lands within our borders offer many novel and satisfying experiences for even those who come from the grandest fantasies. Here, you can live out the rest of your natural life free of the influence of authors and stories while pursuing your own pleasures and adventures. Whether you need monster-filled caves to explore or just a cozy tavern to relax in, you will find it here."

I was puzzled by this description, mainly because I had never had any business with monsters or taverns before. Was this afterlife set in a fantasy world? Why? It seemed pointless, when there had to be so many characters from genres like my own. I had seen them out there, on the way to the welcoming hall. Still baffled, I read on.

"Tyragus was first created by a selfless writer alongside its sister world, Apidarios. This writer desired nothing more than to create places where characters who died before their stories were completed could spend the rest of their lives as a reward for their sacrifice in furthering their own author's plot. To this end, he wrote these two worlds into being and gave each their own set of Laws by which they operate.
"Knowing that different characters would have different needs and desires, the author designed each world differently. Apidarios is a modern paradise, where complex characters who need subtlety and peace in their lives can thrive. Tyragus was created separately from Apidarios, as a haven for those characters whose needs are greater, particularly those existing as wish-fulfillment fantasies and those who have not been developed to the same extent as a complex character…"

The suddenly evasive language told me that something was wrong. They were dodging the truth, but it was there if you just tried to piece it together correctly. I knew what Tyragus was now. It was an afterlife alright, a second chance for dead characters- but not just any dead characters.

"This is a world of Sues," I whispered in horror, letting the pamphlet slip out of my hand. I understood at last what all of those people in the welcoming hall had in common. Everything made sense now- the strange hair colors, the living stereotypes, maybe even the fantasy setting itself. Where better to deposit such characters who refused to play by the rules of literature than in a genre that was known for disregarding such mundane rules anyway? The truth had become painfully clear.

"They sent me to a world of Mary Sues."