Broken Reality

Broken Reality

Somethings awry

Morning. Pale English sunlight drifted across the childs battered cot, illuminating its mangled blankets and the jumble of soft toys strewn within. The cot was empty, but anyone would know it had an owner. On the adjacent double bed, a mound of bedding slowly quivered, and a tousled womans head with an unkempt pixie cut peeked from the depths. Mary opened her eyes. Her head ached more than usual, but the brightness in the room insisted she should have been up long ago.

Whats the point? Ill just stay in bed another moment… What time is it anyhow? Her hand, numb with sleep, groped for the phone. Bright numbers appeared: 10:03. Ten oclock Just a bit longer, she reasoned.

Mary closed her eyes, intent on sinking deeper into a sugary sleep, but a stuttering return snapped her back. 10:04, said the phone. Mary sat upright. Something felt off. As if shed missed something significant and couldnt recall what it was.

She wandered into the deserted flat, stepping through the gloom. Three other bedrooms with beds equally unmade. In the lounge, the dining table still bore the previous nights dishessix plates, six mugs, six sets of cutlery, as though a party of invisible guests had vanished. A plump tortoise paddled about in the aquarium. By two old bowls in the kitchen, a duo of British blue cats sat and blinked at hertheir disappointment as perennial as the English rain. All was as it should be, and yet, manifestly, it was not.

What on earth is it? Mary massaged her temples. Thats it, its too quiet today. Too quiet. But why?

A bracing shower, cold water trickling along her skin. The headache faded a little. Mary dressed and washed, not bothering with the mirrorwhat was the point? 11:30, declared the phone in its glowing indifference.

Coffee. The grand electronic clock in the hall pronounced, in its robotic baritone, Fifteen hours, forty-three minutes.

But my phone says eleven thirty-five, she grumbled, drifting to the kitchen wall clock. Eighteen-twelve. Brilliant. Eleven thirty-six. She returned to her armchair. Something gnawed at her, stranger than broken clocks.

Best open the windows. Thatll clear my head. Mary tiptoed into her room and threw the sash window open. Frosty branches, robust and baremidwinter outside. The next rooms window opened onto tender green budsspring. The third, to sun-scorched rosessummer. From the kitchens balcony, drifted the damp scent of autumn, all mulchy leaves and bonfires. The sitting rooms view was a nonsensical fever dream: crocus and daffodil shoots pushing through snowdrifts, and striped sycamores leafing over watery puddles while brown leaves floated midair. It was as if some mad alchemist had poured all the years seasons into a single greasy cup of English tea and then drunk half of it.

Weird. But not whats bothering me. Mary rubbed an old scar on her brow. No matter. The book isnt going to write itself.

She stumbled over a plastic alphabet table, sighing, and flopped into her seat at the walnut writing desk. Above loomed a shelf enclosed by two blue compartments. Among a clutter of Post-Its and receipts, a photograph was tapeda baby swaddled in a faded yellow onesie, blinking sleepily from under a blanket.

Cupboard doors open again she muttered. A trickle of memory threatened consciousness, but it slipped away before she could catch it. If onlyjustI could remember.

She closed the door, surveyed the room. A wedding photo on the dresser: Mary and a man in tails. The house was so still she could hear the ticking of a forgotten watch. An idea flashed white-hot through her mind:

Where is everyone? Where on earth has everyone gone? Her hands flew to her temples. But whos everyone? Whats going on? Why cant I remember? And why is it so deafeningly quiet?

You wanted quiet. The voice rang out, everywhere and nowhere, soft as moth wings, menacing as the English fog. Dont think about it. You need to write. Go on. Write.

The laptop whirred, sluggishly coming to life, and Chrome snapped open. A site flickered onto the screen: Welcome to the Game. 26 hours for your first task. Post your links in the pinned comment. A digital timer flashed in the corner. 13 hours, 14 minutes to the deadline.

The Right Questions

Done, Mary sighed, removing her hands from the keyboard and stretching back in her creaky chair. One last glanceminutes dripping away on the task timer. Best eat, and then a bit of rest.

She scanned her workspace: desk, cupboards, all seamless. The digital kitchen clock cackled, Five hours, thirty-one minutes. Mary grimacedwere the clocks sneering at her? Only the phone seemed trustworthy, ticking serenely at 00:52.

Still, the silence pressed in. Off to the kitchen. She fished a Pink Lady apple from the fridge and glimpsed the wall clockit had frozen stiff. The cats maintained their exile by their brimming bowls, which remained untouched. They looked like sullen garden statues, dulled by ennui.

Somewhere along the corridor, a door creaked open. Again, a memory flared, honeyed and electric, and Mary hurtled toward the noise, heart pounding. The door was locked fast; the hall was deserted. The expectant joy evaporated, leaving a pit of confusion, then a rising tide of rage. She tried the door.

Dont bother. You cant get out. Not now. The voice thudded through the flat, seeping into the underlay.

Who are you? Whats all this? Why is it so deathly quiet? Marys shouts echoed back at her, swallowed by the silence.

Who I am doesnt matter. What matters is: you wanted silence. What matters is: youre not asking the right questions.

A single shiver snaked down Marys spine. Then what questions are right?

Think. Take your new assignment. And THINK!

That last word struck like a bell in a gothic cathedral, stabbing her headache back to life. But Mary, docile, padded back to her desk. A new brief glowed on screenagain, a timer counting down from twenty-five hours, fifty-two minutes. Reading the topic, she shut her laptop. She wasnt up for writing fiction. The questions formed knots in the air, and that eerie, disembodied voice wouldnt help.

Right questions Mary rolled the phrase over on her tongue, tasting it for hidden meaning. Where to start looking for answers? Waita cupboard door again?

She closed, again, the rebellious cupboard. Then, thinking there was time yet to finish the task, went to the dresser and took up the wedding photograph. She stared, searching.

I know its me in this photograph. But the man Who is he, really? My husband? Why cant I remember him? Wait. What do I remember at all? Her hands tugged at her temples, scratched her scalp. The pain sharpenedthe more she wondered where everyone had gone, the more her head sang with agony.

A shower might help. Mary stripped off her dressing gown and let cool water sweep over her. The pain abated, but the questions swelled:

Who are these people? Who am I? Who am I?!

At lastthe right questions. This time, the voice, its sibilant chuckle threading through the trickle of water, was right next to her ear.

Mary wheeled round. The bathroom was empty, and so, too, the other side of the curtain. She pressed her back to the door and inhaled as much as she could. Just my imagination.

Not your imagination. The voice had a giggle now.

Who are you? Show yourself!

Not the right question. The words reverberated louder, then everywhere: bathroom, hallway, house, head.

Dressed again, Mary wandered the rooms, shutting windows. Now there was only night outside. No noises, no scents, no windjust unbroken pitch. She peeked at her phone. 03:05. At her desk, she noticed the persistent cupboard open again. But the baby photograph had been moved. Now it was attached to the frequent-offending cupboard. Mary picked up the photo, studied those cherubic cheeks. A tear welled, then ran down her face.

Im crying? But why? Who are you, little one? She replaced the photo among the notes and sat, drained, in her chair. Questions, questions My only hopethe phone. It sat in her palm, solid and comforting, stubbornly real.

The bluish screen bloomed. No service. Mary outmanoeuvred the pattern lock, fingers recalling the rhythm. At least I remember something, she murmured bitterly. There were messages, callsat least, would have been, except they were all smeared and unreadable, the images so blurry she could hardly tell what they were. Not much use, are you? Perfect time, nothing else.

Suddenly, a new message indicator appeared. No network, she muttered, as she tapped the envelope. But then again, none of this makes sense anyway…

Four words: Open the folder with the dot. Instead of obeying, Mary summoned the keyboard and stabbed out a reply:

Is this you? That dreadful voice? Now youre in my phone? Why open it? What if its a trick? You trapped me! You stole my memory! Who is the child? Who am I?

Im not a voice. Im here to help. Open the folder. After, Ill answer one questionjust one.

Why trust you?

You dont have a choice, not if you truly want answers. Open the dot-folder. I can say no more.

Marys hands trembled as she found the folder.and a progress bar sliced across the screen: Archive unpacked. Files placed in Gallery.

All photos? She opened the gallerya few images were clear now: a toddler, about two, all curls and sleepy grins, unmistakably the grown version of the baby on the photo. That headache roared anew, and again, she wept.

I opened the folder. Its only photos. What good does that do?

Who took those photographs? Whose phone is it? Who is the child? Who are you? You could have asked anything. But again, not quite the right question, so Ill answer: those images are your memory, your route to remembering… and, by the way, the folder was more than picturesit let you see. Goodbye.

Wait! I’ll ask something else! That’s not what I meant! Are you there?

Mary fired off message after message, but the thread twisted and dissolved into golden ribbons, vanishing. The battery low warning flashed; the phones light died. Mary trudged to her room, plugged it in.

“Its my phone I must be the photographer. But who am I? A photographer? No A writer.” She hugged the little green blanket, sobbing, “A mother…”

The migraine racked her. Her nails tore furrows into her scalp. The blackness behind her eyes deepened. Over it all, a whisperlethal, velvet, close:

I see you’re remembering. No time for tears now.

In the darkness, the phone blinked to life04:13. The dread voice grew cavernous, rolling through her mind and the silent flat:

Remember your task and sleep!

Mary curled on the bed, clutching the babys blanket tightly.

My task… Ill dream what Ill write tomorrow. Have to focus on that…” She closed her eyes and drifted into tangled, restless dreams.

To Remember Everything

Morning, searing light. Mary lay still, eyes pressed shut.

“What an awful dream. Such a dreadfully long, empty day in a flat thats all wrong. Good job its only a dream. So quiet Everything gone. Wait! Who, exactly? There’s me, my husband, my baby… who else? There was someone! No, no, no!” She jerked upright. Beside her, emptiness; in the cot, emptiness; the green blanket balled in her fists. She drew it to her face and inhaledthe scent of a child, as if the little one had just now cast it aside and run off to play.

09:35. The phone displayed the correct time, sturdy as ever. Mary rose.

“No more lying in wondering. I need answers.”

But do you? the voice returned, lazy and amused. You do have your writing task. Is there really anything else?

Sacrifices? What are you on about?

Ah, you remember nothing. I’ve told you often enough: you wanted this.

This? What? she fumed, scrubbing at her scalp. No purpose in exploring the roomswherever that voice was, clearly, nothing had changed. It wasnt just a nightmare. She wouldnt find her baby hiding behind the armchair.

A shower. A coffee. Her headache never left, now a part of her as much as her shadow. Mary no longer mindedpain had its meaning: the worse it got, the closer she must be.

For the first time, she noticed fresh photos on the dressertwo boys, one older, one younger, and a girl, the youngest of them all.

Mary snatched her phonegallery: no blurry images, only her, her husband, and four children. No doubtthese were her family. But, then, why was she alone, in a flat crammed with their memories, toy landslides, echoes of running feet, laughing, Saturday morning pancakes, and a man humming to himself in the kitchen?

Mary slumped in her chair, head thrown back, eyelids closed.

“Think, think, THINK!” She forced her eyes open, rubbed her temple. “Perhaps theres something in my messages?” She opened her messagesher entire conversation with her husband unfurled. Ordinary days, to-do lists, but at the end, a tempest:

Since you won’t listen, at least read this. I’m exhausted. It’s me and the kids, round the clock, always. You’re either working, sleeping, or out. I want to get some early nights, but can’tbecause our baby wakes up, night after night. I settle him, again and again. I go to sleep at four, up again by seven. Four wallsit’s relentless. I only asked for time for my own work. You promised to entertain them, but at the first call, you left. You didn’t even listen to me. Don’t ask me to stay calm! Writing is all that’s kept me sane! I’ve got the most important writing competition soon, and no time to finish. You dump me with the lotnappies, mess, arguments. I just want to breathe! To have my own time. Why can’t you see?

Time sent: 19:37. No reply. Her headache thundered again. She moved to pour more coffee, but the room swooned. Mary slid down to the cool floor as the world slipped into black.

*

You lot drive me mad! Cant you settle down for just one evening? Everyone, corner, now! I cant write in this racket!

Mum, it wasnt me. I was!

I dont care, all of you! And you, as the eldest, could have settled them with a quiet game. You know I need to finish this book before the deadline. I need to focus. Cant you see? Instead, mayhem! Clean up! Quiet, all of you!

Mum, can we go to bed now?

Only when I finish! The longer this goes on, the later you go.

A few hours later, Mary submitted her manuscript.

Done. Oh! The childrenstill in time out. She checked the clock01:23and rushed to the corridor. There, the children slept, strewn about like spilled dolls.

Alright, up you get, beds now She woke the two boys, hugged them, shooed them to their rooms. She lifted her daughter and tucked her up, with a kiss on her forehead. The youngest, finally, she cuddled and put to rest in his cot, under the green blanket.

Im sorry, my darlings. Mum loves youshe does… Just wishes youd listen, sometimes…”

She wandered each room, switching off the lights, adjusting duvets. Now, she noticedthe toys everywhere, water spilled near the bathroom, sugar dust and leftover porridge in the kitchen. Mary slumped to the floor.

How much more? The fury and hurt built and broke again. She tidied the mess, checked the clock03:30. Sleep. At last.

The baby cried from the bedroom. Sighing, Mary gathered him, soothed and settled him. 04:20, her phone blinked.

An hour and a halfs sleep. Why did I get married? Why so many kids? If only none of this had happened. If only I could have silence. I just want to sleep.

*

Mary raised her head and scanned the room. She was on the lounge rug, next to her chair. Reality rose over her like a tidal waveguilt so immense, it threatened to drown her, toss her, leave her gasping. She hugged her knees and wept.

This is my fault. I wanted silence. I wished things undone. Im the reason theyre gone. The voice was right. I wanted itme.

Remember now? The voice returned, not unkindly. How does it feel, your new life? No shrieking, no cartoons, everything still.

A sarcasm label seemed to float in her minds eye.

Taunting me, then? Cant you see?

But you wanted this. Now you cry?

I didnt want this. Words said in anger. I just wanted one good nights sleepnot to lose my family.

Thats not what you wished, though. Always pay attention to what you wish for. Now: you may write as much as you wantno interruptions, not even from the cats. Theyre silent for you, too. Silence, remember?

My family was never the problem. Bring them back!

I cant. The voice faded, barely more than a whisper.

Mary rose, wandering every room slowly, recalling every last vanished trace of her old life. She no longer cared about mess, shreds of wallpaper or broken crockery. They were insignificant now. She ran her fingers over her childrens things, thinking only of how much she loved them all.

In time, she took a shower to rinse her sorrow away, letting the water reorder her thoughts. She gazed in the mirrorpuffy-eyed, but resolved.

Her phone: 20:42. Four hours till her next writing task.

Ill finish on time. But first…” She opened a new message, addressing the Unknown Contact. He helped me remember. Maybe hell know how to get it all back. Ive no one else at all… She typed:

I need your help.

She sent the message, sat at her desk. The troublesome cupboard door was closed, but now, there was no one left to open it. She opened her laptop and wrote:

This burden of exquisite guilt,
In quiet midnight, cries to me.
Must those who seek for silence
Be counted criminal, condemned?
Was my desire so grave?
Did bitter words condemn me?
Life itself metes punishment,
But I must mend it all.

Unreality

Task completed. Mary sat, staring at the black screen. The flat was as still as a painting. She checked the door, the windowsbehind them was only a painted nothingness, and her hand, when stretched outwards, simply faded. The doors lock spun round and rounduseless.

The more she surveyed the space, the more it appeared false, drawn by someone with a lazy brush. Cats were motionless. The tortoise drifted in an endless loop. The fridge made no hum. There was no muffled thrum of neighbours, no distant telly, no domestic soundscapenothing at all unless Mary herself interacted with something. Otherwise, perfect silence.

Its all unreal… Im trapped in a picture, with no exit. She hummed a song about dawn and no way out. At least my phones real. Maybe hell write back.

Suddenly, the phone buzzed. She unlocked, tapped open the message thread.

Im here. Although I shouldnt be. It wasnt part of the plan.

But you want to help, dont you?

Not wantmust.

Are you as false as everything else here?

Youre beginning to suspect, then.

Something or someone put me into a story-world, like a computer game, because I longed for silence. I want to escape.

Not drawna written world. And what do you want from me?

Draw me a door home. An exit.

Cant be done.

Why? You made the photos, didnt you?

I didnt drawjust wrote a program to see files. Because thats what he wrote. Or she. Anyway, this world… is yours. Or as close as youll get.

What do you mean?

Your memories are written too. You, me, all of us were written into being. Shes the author. Our creator. The voice in your head, telling you what to do. She says: Write, you write. She says: Sleep, you sleep.

So nothing here is real?

Thats a question for her. Plus, rememberany dialogue were having is hers, right now. Shell be with you soon.

Mary turned her phone over and placed it on her lap. There was nothing for it now but to wait. Coffeeshe made another cup, arranged herself back in the armchair.

If Im written, Ill just do nothing. She closed her eyes, planning for a nap.

No time for sleep. You know everything. The authors voice was certain.

I know. And I have questions.

You can ask. Ill answer a few, but not all at once. You like to do that…

I do? How can I like something? Im not real.

Do you love your children?

I feel as if I do… But Im not real.

If you feel, youre alive.

A sudden pinchshe yelped. Her shoulder stung. Ow! I feel! Butexplain.

Yes, I wrote you with my laptop and these lines. But as soon as you appeared in my mind, you were alive. Real, in your reality. You live as long as I write. And when I stop, as long as youre read, you live. And even after, in your own life, written or unwritten. The real worldyour husband, your children, those breakfasts, those messy Saturdaysexists. Youll return there. Maybe. When I feel like writing you back there.

Will I go back? I think youre smilingI can hear it. So Ill dare to ask.

If I werent, would you have asked?

Im scared. I realise I have no pastno childhood, no schooland you could write anything you want for me.

I might not write you back right away. My deadlines are like yours. Show me your next assignment? I hope youre writing in proper iambic, by the waythanks for the flashy poem ending. Well see what your next task is.

So the assignments are real? Even you dont know what happens next?

Exactly. Youll have to have the same conversation with your own characters. My times quickerI only know up to task five. Ill do what I can to get you home. For now: go amuse yourself with the fourth assignment.

The authors voice faded. Mary smiled into her empty mug, stretched, and went to work on her laptop. For the moment, she stopped caring about what time it was, what lay beyond the frozen windows, or what might come tomorrow. She believed in her author.

*

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All is Muddled

Oi Mary, you hear?

Hm?

Ive news. Two bits of it…

Lets have it then. Judging by your tone, its nothing good.

How to say… I think I can get you home. But you might not like the journey.

Couldnt be worse than this fake world and missing my family.

Try that, tripled. Plus some bad puns and reality glitches.

What?

Task four: mash up all your parts and serve as a cocktail. Add a dash of humourdark or light. Didnt want to warn you, but better its said.

She didnt hear the lastbecause a gelatinous something spilled out the laptop monitor, slapping onto the keyboard and morphing into a hedgehog. Or, rather, a wobbly impression of oneprickles wilting, body quaking into puddles. The authors voice now emerged from the depths of the jelly-hogs squishy nose.

Are you even listening? it snorted, flopping to the floor.

Thank you for cleaning the keyboard. Or are you “he” now? A hedgehog is “he,” but youre jelly…

Jelly can be any genderif its jelly in a bowl, she; jelly in a pot, he; if… wait! What? The authors voice realised it had gone wrong.

Youre probably “it”… no genders here. Was that your plan? Shape-shifter jelly-hog?

No, it wasnt! Whats happening?

Welcome to my world. Mary grinned.

I protest! squealed the wobbly hedgehog, picking crumbs from its paws and wailing uselessly at the stickiness.

The laptop flickeredit was no longer the contest portal, but a cosmic vortexstars whirling, multicoloured, spinning faster. Mary began to dissolve into the same jelly as the hedgehog, curling, pulled into the spiral. In the empty, painted room, the light blinked out.

*

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Morning. Weak sunlight flowed through the window, glancing off the battered English cot. It was empty, the mess of blankets and toys proof of a childs reign. The double bed lumped and, after a moment, a jelly-womans head, pixie-shaped with wobbling jelly filaments, peered out. Mary remembered everythingthe dreamt-up world, her vanished family, the author transmuted into a jelly-hedgehog, and the cosmic spiral that sucked them through the screen.

The jelly-hedgehog was somewhere in her gelatinous foot.

Now what? I cant even standI have to slop. Mary oozed off the bed, reassembling herself. She wobbled her hand before her half-transparent nose. The jelly-fingers wiggled and jiggled. She giggled.

Not funny. muttered the jelly-hedgehog, face-planting with a wobble.

Lets… slither around and explore.

They oozed through the flat. Everything looked as in the written worldsame cats, same tortoise. The outside was anyone’s guess.

Let’s try the window. Toss me, I’ll take a look.

Mary scooped the hedgehogit melted into her palms. She squished it into shape and gently lobbed it up; it spattered onto the ceiling, sticky prickles hanging.

Not so hard! Its paws dripped like thick custard.

You two having fun? squawked a voice, everywhere and nowhere. How about this?

The room spun upside down, the hedgehog stuck fast to what was now the floor, Mary flopped beside him.

Still a blend of seasons outside, Mary observed, pooling down the wall.

Get off me.

Working on it.

With much shifting and runny effort, Mary returned to vertical. The jelly-hedgehog now sat awkwardly as her hat.

Well, I didnt expect this. The voice laughed.

Its not funny. they chorused.

Oh, but it is! The voice died away. Silence. The tortoise drifted upside-down through the aquarium, unconcerned with gravity.

A finger-snap of sound. The room rotated again, tilting from wall to wall until, trembling, it stopped when the lowest spot was the corner. Mary and her hedgehog slid, then pooled into a quivering heap. The lights died. Through the painted windows, nothing but dark. The room snapped back to normal.

Now what? asked Mary.

No idea…

You wrote this. Your contest, your mess. And now Im jelly with a hedgehog hat!

Suddenly, the black walls gleamedall the seams leaking rainbow light, shifting shades. Shadows crept across the paintwork, whispering, Its your fault. You wished for this. There it was again, the dreadful heartbeatTop. Top. Top. Had Mary and the hedgehog possessed hairs, theyd be on end; had jelly sweated, it wouldve run cold. But they just quivered. The noises died. The Top. Top. Top. grew until, in the door, stood a phoneMarys phone, now upright on two pencil legs, with staring eyes on the screen and a jagged mouth.

Frightened, my wobbly friends? You thought you wrote your own stories, but its I who wrote you! Kneel to me! Your Creator! Oh, waityou cant. It cackled gruesomely.

Hes lost it, whispered Mary.

Clearly a virus. murmured the hedgehog.

Suddenly, the laughter cut out, a shrill beep. The phone wailed, Oh no! Battery! Im dying! and dashed off into the corridor.

If looks could be exchanged between hedgehogs and people made of jelly, these two wouldve managed it.

Got an idea, said the hedgehog. Nothing to lose.

Go on.

Rip me off your head and chuck me out the window. There’s a chance Ill pop back human in my study, reach through and pull you in.

Odds?

Fifty-fifty.

Better than none. Brace yourself.

Mary grabbed firmly. The hedgehog yelped, but Marys jelly-fingers kept pulling, stretching him longer. At last: pop. He sprang back into hedgehog shape.

She flung him through the window; he vanished. Silence enveloped everything; time hung, heavy and slow. After an age, a woman’s hand appeared, felt for Mary, grabbed her jelly-hair, and pulled her through the glass. The room was left empty.

*

Two women, mirror images, sat side by side at a computer.

If you want, you can stay here. Or return.

Ill go, said Mary, her gaze lingered on the photo on the cupboard. The infant beneath the yellow blanket.

Thats not a blanket, the author smiledits a cocoon. Little one used to swaddle himself for fun.

Am I you?

Not quite. Youre better, and worse. You’re a bit of a caricature, with more talent, but impulsive and brittle. Youre you.

That door again.

Ignore it. Children, you know. Off you golive your life.

*

A phone perched on a desk, watching as two womenso alike, so differenthugged goodbye, and a door, at last, clicked shut, sending the flat into gentle darkness.