Twisted Tales

Out of the Frying Pan

     I finished the strange tale that led me to this dungeon, in this world that was not my own, and fell silent, waiting for a response from Erik.

     For a long time, I heard nothing but the sound of his breathing. And then—

     "You're right, I don't believe it."

     "Seriously?" I demanded, my temper flaring. "We've been attacked by giants; your house was a gift from a fairy sorceress; we're only in this mess because I made a magical gnome tear himself in half; and we got into this damn castle via magic beans. What about getting sucked into a... a... parallel world is so fantastic that you can't believe it?"

     "It's not that part I don't buy," he replied. "You being from some other realm clears a lot of things up for me. Mostly having to do with your general strangeness."

     "Hey!"

     "No, what I can't accept is that, according to this story of yours, this world—my world—is just some... book of made up stories? Children's tales that mothers read to babes? I can't believe that. I won't accept that my life, the lives of everyone around me, are predetermined, written by some author who has never seen in this world with his own eyes."

     "Well, I don't know how it's possible, but that's what happened," I huffed. "The Book I showed you? It doesn't tell the future or whatever it is I told you it did. It just has the stories in it, already written, the way they are supposed to go. Except I guess not anymore. I messed up the story when I killed Rumpelstiltskin, it didn't happen the way it was supposed to."

     "Because our lives aren't just stories," Erik said, and though I couldn't see his expression, his voice was hard. "We aren't imaginary characters bound by words on a page." Erik shoved his hand through the bars of his cage. He reached over, groping blindly. I stretched out my own arm, and the angle was awkward, but I was able to touch his fingers. He grabbed my hand, squeezing tightly. "Does this feel imaginary? Do I feel like some character in a story to you?"

     I sniffed, tears starting to run down my face again. "No," I said.

     "Because book or no book, I'm real, and my life is my own. Words on a page won't define me or my fate."

     "Well, you don't actually have a story," I told him as I wiped my eyes with the back of the my free hand.

     "...What?"

     "I mean, as far as I can tell, there isn't a story about you in the book. There's no fairytale that has someone like you as a character."

     "So you're trying to tell me that my entire world is nothing but a collection of children's stories—and I'm not even in it?"

     "Yeah, I don't know why I thought telling you that would make you feel better."

     "Not a very good book, is it," he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for me to hear.

     I laughed, I couldn't help it. "Yeah, I'm a bit less fond of it now than I used to be myself."

     "What about Jack? Is Jack in any of the stories?"

     "Uh... nope. No. No story for Jack, uh-uh," I lied. No sense getting Erik all riled up at this point.

     We both fell silent again, still holding hands through the bars in our cells.

     "Erik?" I said.

    "Yeah?"

     "Do you think we're going to find a way out of this?"