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He was running for his life, without bothering to look behind him. He had dark brown hair, blue eyes, and was Caucasian. He refused to let fate get to him, now that he knew.

He was a character in a story, and he knew that every moment was precious, because his story was being woven from someone's mind, and every story has an ending. He took great breaths, knowing that his story would end soon. His adventure would live on in the writer's mind, but it would not be written. Writing solidified the story, made his memories there.

He wasn't sure where the story began. There had to be a reason he had suddenly gained knowledge of the truth. The writer could've blanked his memory at any point in time. But the writer hadn't made him forget. He stopped, panting, and leaned against a wall. The scenery was materializing. Normally, it would've been there the whole time to a character such as himself. But the awareness of being a character kept the eerie blankness of before in his mind. He was in the city now, no, just a city. It would be familiar if he didn't know he was a character. He didn't even have a name at this point.

Once, he'd had a name. Now that he was in the hands of the writer, the writer did not feel the need to name him. Not now, anyway. The moments ticked by slowly. It was obvious the writer was thinking about what she wove into the story. Really, he wouldn't have as much of a problem with being a character if he was a villain. But no. He was the character being focused on. He was doomed to die. That always happened in her stories, he had gotten that in the sudden awareness.

Why should he fight it? No matter how he ran, the writer could kill him with but a few words.

Suddenly, the scenery changed. He was falling, falling.... dead.

Except that never happened. His heart beat fast, and he gasped for air again. He had been dead for a few seconds. Those few seconds before it was stated that none of it actually happened. But he knew it had been written that way. Death was cruel. It was an inky blackness, with no light at the end of the tunnel. A permanent loss of consciousness.. forever gone, until it had never happened.

Now he was confusing himself. He sighed. "Just kill me.... I know you're going to kill me just like every other main character you've created recently, because you are a sick, twisted creature.... I hope that if you try write a book, it never gets published..." he hung his head, ready to be killed.

A light chuckle echoed through the scenery.

"Your story is interesting.... it will be fleshed out, and you will get a beginning before your end.... Austin McCreight"

He was no longer nameless... perhaps he would get his story to experience and remember before being ended....