I woke up to pure blackness. The last thing I remembered was my skull getting intimate with an aluminum baseball bat, wielded by a psychotic football player who was blaming me for killing his father in a short story I had written for school. A short story which, based on the way he was acting, was apparently true. Except it couldn't have been true, because I had only existed, or the world had only existed, or something, for less than two weeks. The first thing I remembered was waking up with Summer Glau's mouth around my dick on a Monday morning in September; how the hell could I have killed a guy in July?
Yeah, my life was kind of fucked up.
Back to the blackness. I could feel myself sitting on a plain wood chair, one that lacked any sort of cushioning. There was no light, so I couldn't tell if my eyes were open or closed. Neither my hands nor my legs seemed to be tied down, which was good. On the other hand, I had no idea where I was so I still had no idea what my chance of escape looked like, or if it was even possible.
"Soooo..." I said into the darkness. "Am I being held prisoner, or is this one of those 'have a conversation with yourself' scenes where I talk to myself in riddles and vague hints?"
"What do you think?" The answer was in my own voice. There was a snap and hiss as a match flared to life, briefly illuminating my face some five feet away as I lit a whopping huge cigar. It shouldn't have been possible, but the glowing tip was bright enough that I could see my doppleganger standing there in a trench coat, a Cuban clenched in the corner of his mouth. He looked just like the stereotypical informant from 40s gangster flick, except that I didn't really have the shoulders or chiseled jaw to properly pull off that sort of look.
"I think you, I, or we may be over compensating with that cigar," I said with a nod.
"Wiseass."
"You would know, wouldn't you?" I said with a shake of my head. "Look, do you have any idea what's going?"
"Yeah, you're unconscious, mostly because you let some asshole hit you in the head with a bat."
"Besides that, I mean."
My doppleganger shrugged. "You know everything I do."
"Is that supposed to be some vague hint that I already know what's going on," I asked with a frown, "or an admission that I really have no idea what is going on?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know?" My doppleganger rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth. Even though it was clearly lit and smoking, it hadn't burned any shorter during our conversation. "I mean, I'm you, right?"
"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of." I sighed. "Ok, so then what do we know?"
"We know this world is a little too happy-happy joy-joy," the doppleganger replied. "But we knew that. We were told that. What else were we told?"
"This world will be as you write it," I quoted. "Wait, you don't think...?"
"You wrote the short story, and now Yawgmoth thinks you killed his father," the doppleganger replied. "I'm pretty sure the two are connected, yeah."
"Ok, but how does that even work?" I demanded.
"I don't know. Why not go and find out?" The doppleganger pulled the cigar from his mouth and pinched off the tip. He dropped the glowing ember to the floor, then crushed it beneath his boot. The darkness returned, and with it, silence.
*
The next time I woke up it was much easier to figure out where I was. Half a dozen different machines sat next to me, steadily beeping as they monitored my vital signs. An old ten inch TV was mounted across from me in a corner of the ceiling, silently playing a day time soap. Oddly, it wasn't an HD TV, but the sort of boxy thing common back in the 90s. Two thick metal railings lined the side of my bed to make sure I didn't accidentally roll out of it, and someone had oh-so helpfully jammed a plastic breathing tube down my throat.
Summer was sitting in the chair next to me, quietly reading from black Nook. She looked up as I grunted, then bolted to her feet when she realized I was awake. "Oh, thank gods!" she cried as she leaned over to hug me. The bed squeaked and rocked as she squeezed me tight, and for a moment I found it difficult to breathe. "Do you have any idea how badly you scared us? When Aly called to say you hadn't made it..."
"Eeerk!" I gargled.
"What?" She looked down and suddenly remembered where we were. "Oh! Sorry, sorry!"
"Glg," I replied, or tried to. I couldn't even frown with that blasted tube stuck down my throat. Instead I held up my hands and mimed a pen and paper, wincing as I accidentally tugged on the IV some bastard had stuck me with. Being hospitalized sucks.