chapter 24 ;; cashton

one

CALUM

I was stuck. I didn't know how, I didn't know why, but I knew I was most definitely stuck in the book that I had been reading. It all started with a glitch on my computer, my Wattpad library going haywire, so I had to start the story all over again. I impatiently clicked 'start reading.'

And then there was nothing. It was like I was stuck in a bleached white box. Things started to fuzz, words started to emerge. Welcome to Wattpad. Enjoy! After I got a chance to read the words, there was a shooting pain that went straight through me. It sent me to the ground and knocked me out of consciousness.

I woke up in a bathroom, my forehead on the front of somebody's shoulder. I could feel blood, and I could smell it, and I could taste it. Looking up, I saw a boy around my age. This could definitely not be true. I swallowed. I knew this boy.

Ashton Irwin. Cutie. Asshole. Clingy. It was what the book had told me. The book had also told me the exact details of the bathroom we were in. It was perfect. Grey tiled walls and bleached white tiles on the floor. Shampoo and conditioner lined up. A beautiful boy inside.

But where were the imperfections? This boy in the photo was different to the boy that was described in the story and presented in front of me. The guy was gorgeous in the photo, with a few flaws – pimples, receding hairline, and a few tiny things, but this guy was flawless. His nose was cute and his pimples were gone and he had a full head of hair. It was exactly how the story described, not how he really was.

"W-Where am I?" I asked, dazed as he pressed a piece of toilet paper drenched in Dettol to my bicep.

"You were passed out, bleeding everywhere, in front of my house. So, I picked you up and fixed you." Oh, I was in chapter two. Now it made sense why the bastard wrote in first person. So the person called I – as in me – could be involved.

"If I was bleeding out, why didn't you bring me to the hospital?"

"I . . . I don't know."

I finally realised it after I spent a long time staring at his stupidly flawless face that he had no control over what he was doing. He was merely a character in a book. Something made up. He couldn't help but do what he had been assigned to do. Like a puppet on a string.

On the bright side, at least I hadn't died. I was never supposed to die, because then what would be the point of writing in first person? In fact, I wasn't even a character in the book. I had literally just fuzzed in there. I had no place in the story.

The stupid, stupid story that didn't even let me go to hospital when apparently I was bleeding out.

Which meant . . . I could do whatever I wanted in the story, as I was not a character.

I stood up, but wobbled a little, the realism of losing a lot of blood kicking in. "Calum," he mumbled, "Sit down."

"Take me home." I said as strongly as I could, but it just came out soft and weak.

He didn't say anything, just lifted me up – bridal style, of course, because I was reading a cliché fanfic – and took me downstairs to the car. He put me in the front seat and I looked for the seatbelt. There wasn't one. It hadn't been put in the story. I was safe for the next few chapters at least. I had only read up to chapter twenty-four, so that was as far as I was okay.

He drove me home and took me inside, us both not bothering to knock. I gasped at what I saw. This house was a two-storey with a flat-screen and nice carpet and everything just looked so unaffordable. My house was a small one storey that my mother could barely afford. My house had terrible milky coffee coloured carpet and a small kitchen. This was just perfect.

"Hey, Cal,"

What the fuck had happened to my sister? What happened to curvy, nicely put Mali? She was now replaced with this skinny girl I knew nothing about. And Mum? Where were her crooked teeth, and her wrinkles? And her hair . . . what had this writer done to my family?

Dad. Dad was the worst. He just looked so buff and nice-looking. Where was the pot-belly? Or the glasses? Or the pale skin? Or the nose that I had so sadly been cursed with?

"Um, hey."

Normally, by now, my Dad would shoot me with a casual, 'where have you been?' and my sister would follow it up with, 'out with his boyfriend.' But there was nothing. Not even when I led Ashton upstairs to try and guess what room was mine.

"Can I stay with yo – "

"Get out." I told him, standing in front of the door labelled 'CALUM' in obvious letters.

I opened it, ready to have a mental breakdown because what the fuck was this. I not down for this. It may have been way more awesome than my room, but it was not my room. He – being a boy in a fanfiction – tried to fight me and tell me that he wanted to stay the night and sleep there so he could see if I was okay. I shoved him out, however, and slammed the door.

My dented walls had been replaced with a nice blue colour that looked so soft and so smooth. My small bed had been replaced with a king-sized one. There were no posters, no photos, no sense of detail, no room for nostalgia. I hated it.

I couldn't move for a while, scared that this author had written some other surprise like a booby-trapped carpet. Finally, I started to move into it. I had took a deep interest in my wall and how perfect it was, to realise that there was a book on the edge of the quilt cover. I opened it.

Welcome to Wattpad!

You may notice a things.

1. you are inside the book you have been reading.

2. Some things may be fuzzy, but that's because the author hasn't put any detail into them.

3. You are stuck inside the book you have been reading.

Not to worry! You will get out. No human has ever been stuck into a book for a lifetime before. Here's the catch: we won't tell you how. Have fun trying to figure out how to do that. Especially if you haven't read up to the end of the story. Who knows? Maybe you'll be writing the end faster than the author will be.

I turned the page, but there was nothing there. In desperation, I turned page after page, only to see nothing staring back at me. "No!"

Come on, Calum. I thought to myself after I'd calmed myself down. Play the game, hit the home run.

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