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"Hayley Marie Schultz! Get downstairs right now!"

At the sound of Auntie Steph's irritated voice, I buried myself deeper underneath my warm covers. I rolled my eyes as I stuffed my face into my pillow. I let out an exaggerated groan as I yelled, "Just five more minutes!"

"Hayley!" Auntie Steph screeched from the foot of the steps leading up to my room. "You've been saying that for the past half an hour! Enough is enough! Come downstairs now!"

"Urgh, fine!" I kicked off my blankets and instantly recoiled as the chilly morning air hit me with a blast. I quickly hopped out of bed before flinging open my closet door. I tugged on a black denim jacket and pulled a pair of cosy, canvas pants up to my waist before making my way down to the dining room.

As my chair scraped across the tiled floor, Auntie Steph entered the room, carrying a platter heaped with fried eggs and bacon.

"Mmm," I eyed the breakfast greedily as she set it down on the table.

Auntie Steph just huffed in annoyance and threw a napkin at me. "Take that if you don't wanna get bacon fat all over yourself. Teyla!Where are you, sweetie?"

"So ... you reserve the nice talk for her now, do you?" I smirked, as I began spearing the eggs with my fork and plopping them onto my plate. "She's worse than me in the mornings."

Auntie Steph chose to ignore me as she helped herself to some bacon strips, coated with maple syrup and dripping with melted butter.

"I - I'm here!" Teyla announced breathlessly, bursting into the room amidst the fluster of trying to adjust her scarf.

"Finally," I mumbled under my breath.

Auntie Steph shot me a knowing look just as the doorbell rang. "Whose that?" she inquired.

"Oh that'd be Wesley," I shrugged, quickly standing up and stuffing the rest of my egg into my mouth. "He's got something to show me and Teyla ... apparently."

"Geez, why is he here this early? I haven't even had time to eat yet!" Teyla wailed.

"Well, grab something then and eat it on the way!" Auntie Steph ordered briskly. "Go on then."

I, on the other hand, was already on my way to the door. Shoving aside the safety lock, I swung it wide open and grinned widely.

"Hey Wesley, what's up?" I asked, giving him a quick side-hug.

"Nothing much," he shrugged, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses to sit more comfortably on his nose. "C'mon Teyla! Where are ya?"

Teyla bounded into view. "Right here. Let's go. See ya, Mum!"

"Bye, sweetie!" Auntie Steph hollered after her. "Don't wander off too far, okay?"

"Pfff, us? Never!" I answered dramatically, waving for Teyla to go through the door first.

As she and Wesley started down the driveway, I turned back to make sure the door had closed behind me. As I did so, I caught sight of the dreaded, black mark smeared on the inside of my wrist. I froze. Slowly, I turned my arm over and examined the tattoo.

99.

That was my number.

For just a moment, I'd let myself feel free, feel real. But I should've known better than that.

I could never be real, because I didn't exist. I was fake. I was just a work of fiction.

And I hated it.

Everyone had their number. Auntie Steph was 86, Wesley 92, Teyla, 95, and my gorgeous boyfriend, Daniel, was 97. They were lucky to be in the last twenty numbers. It'd been over four years since our story had fallen into the hands of our current Author and so far everyone, numbered 1 - 67, was dead.

I should've felt glad that my closest friends and family were so far down the line they wouldn't be killed for a good long while yet ... but I wasn't. I knew that one day in the future, I'd have to stand by helplessly and watch them die. It wasn't something I was prepared to face, none the less, think about.

Whenever I saw my tattoo, out of the corner of my eye, I would always think of Mum. She was number 36. Both she and my father had been killed in a horrific accident. No one had figured out the exact cause of it, they'd just made assumptions, but the bodies of both of them were never found. I'd made myself believe they were well and alive ... somewhere, but as time dragged on and on, I was forced to face reality. Of course they were dead. How could they have survived? The Author had killed them. And now he was going to kill each and every one of us. He was merciless. He'd never stop ... until everyone, including me, was gone.

However, contrary to the majority of views, Mum had a differing opinion about the Author. She believed there was a way to escape this prison, a way to get rid of him before he got rid of us. Of course, everyone called her stupid and laughed in her face whenever she tried to reason with them, but as a young girl, I was enthralled by the tales she told me. I earnestly believed, in my childlike innocence, that we could escape.

I remember, in particular, on one wintry evening, once the Author had closed our book and gone to bed, that I couldn't sleep. I had just witnessed the horrific murdering of a woman and her baby girl by a group of invaders and I was terrified. Mum scooped me up and snuggled me in her rocking chair, listening as I asked for her to tell me one of "her stories".

Mum, being the beautiful, caring angel that she was, had complied. She started her story with "Once upon a fairytale, a long, long time ago ..." She went on to tell me about a wealthy merchant who was also trapped in a prison, similar to ours. He had been cursed by a ruler of black magic, who'd caused him to be able to see into other realms. He hated the fact that he could see the supernatural, knowing that one day, his nightmares would finally envelop him in death. Now, this merchant had a little daughter, whose name was Hayley and very conveniently, looked exactly like me. The merchant wanted his little girl to know the truth, so he wrote a message to her on a scroll of parchment and hid it in a secured trunk in his basement, with the hopes that one day, she would find it and read it.

That's as much as I heard before I drifted off to sleep, but it was enough to keep me on edge for the next story and the next one and the one after that.

As I got older, I grew out of the "story-telling" phase. I never appreciated the fact that I could just sit down and listen to a story ... until I couldn't.

I shook myself out of my deep reverie and scurried after Wesley and Teyla, who were yelling at me to hurry up. As I sprinted down the gravel driveway and hauled myself over our fence, I looked up towards the 'sky' which was the inside of the closed leather cover of our story.

I didn't want to feel trapped anymore ... but I didn't know how to shake the feeling, especially when I knew, all too well, what was coming next.

A/N: I hope u readers enjoyed this & if so please do comment & vote, I'd love it so much!It makes my day! Thank you so much for reading.

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