You roll over onto your stomach, your hands tied behind your back and your ankles taped together. You feel your heel still on, wiggling your toes as you feel the cold blood loss to them from the tight tape. You attempt to cough out the gag that was placed in your mouth. You start to cough when it hits the back of your throat, which is dry and scratchy. You were yelling and screaming. You remember. For help, for anyone, until your voice was hoarse and you could barely whisper. Then you were gagged, scolded for being a 'brat' and giving them away. You were thrown somewhere, laying in some dusty room or space. Being… punished?

Was there a drug in the gag that you now had on tighter? You fell asleep right after it was tied behind your neck. No, you wouldn't be awake now, with it in front of your airway, which was sucking breath in heavily. You were just so tired. So tired of whatever was going on.

But why does that matter? Why do you care in this situation? The gag is the least of your problems. You don't even remember how you got here, and that adds to the pure terror hiding in the back of your mind. The terror of being blindfolded and stuffed somewhere, not knowing where you are or what you did that upset the kidnappers so much. If kidnappers was the right word for people who take you away and throw you around.

But really, where could you be? Maybe in a car, judging by all of the tossing and turning of your body in this small space. You tumble around for a few minutes, trying to slip off the bandana covering your view. The car turns slightly, and with a grunt you roll into a hard wall. Grunting again, you move your forehead against the floor one final time, slipping the bandana off. Your eyes squint at the sudden light, and you have to blink excessively to get used to it. Once your eyes are adjusted, you take in the area you're in.

Looking around, you see a window on the door of the small room you're in. You see a couch and a TV through the window, and a bed a few feet away from them. The vehicle isn't a car, it's a bus. A very nicely decorated one. Is this a prank? It would be a good one. Stella probably thought this one. Yes, your best friend found that it would be funny to leave you scared and confused in a random bus, tumbling and hitting walls. Sure.

Okay, so you might not be thinking very straight at the moment.

But you are. All of this thinking is a cover for the hard, scary truth. You know the gag isn't filled with some liquid drug or gas. They told you it wasn't. They shoved you into this bus in the tiniest closet of a room, knowing you could see out into the rest of the bus and realize what was going on. They were the ones who roughly wrapped the bandana over your eyes, knowing you would have nightmares from the tightness around your head. They were the ones who knew you would go insane trying to figure this out.

And, the scary thing is, you know this bus. This exact one, decorations and everything. But you don't want to admit it. You aren't in the infamous bus right now. You're dreaming. Daydreaming. This is fiction. All in that little head of yours. You're really at home, sleeping and snoring away after a long day at school. This isn't happening. You won't believe it.

Even if it's not fake. But being doubtful only lasts so long. You're already doubting these theories you keep coming up with to shield the one explanation that's true. You feel the pain of fear in your body. The cooling sweat on your forehead. It doesn't feel fake. The emotions aren't numb like when you're dreaming. You sit up, looking around some more, even though you have every inch of this bus memorized safe in a spot in your brain.

You can't believe this isn't real. But they would never do this. Why would they? What did you do to them?

Then realization hits you.

They did this to you. Not just anyone.

Them.

And, yes, this is the bus you have always seen searching for new information on your obsession. The one you craved to be in, all alone with the members of your favorite band. The one in the magazines and on TV, the one in your mind when you go see their concert and see the guys, remembering where they stay after this first show in their hometown is over. Wondering if they enjoy being home-schooled- er, bus-schooled for their whole tour while they aren't at Horace Mantis, laughing it up with their friends and the girls they like.

You cannot believe this situation. You are trapped, roiling and wincing at the stinging bruises on your wrists and ankles from the tight rope and tape around them in the famous tour bus of JONAS.

A jingle starts playing in the room, echoing off the walls. You look around anxiously, trying to see anything past the boxes stacked around you. The music is coming louder, and you feel something hit the side of your jeans- covered thigh. You peer down to the object and see your flashing cell phone, and remember the music as your ringtone. The flashing screen reads 31 TXT MSGS & 23 MISSED CALLS. People know you're missing! You'll be found! You just have to wait it out. But who would ever search the tour bus of a famous band? You sigh inwardly, bringing your feet to your chest. You swing them to the side, and with your heel move the cell phone in front of you. You hit the Inbox button with your stick-like heel and see the first message.

To: Macy

From: Kevin of JONAS

Msg: I'm sorry.

You kick the phone away and hear it slam into a box in the corner. Tears mist over your eyes as you slam your head into the wall behind you.

Yes, they did this. All of it.

And you have no idea why.

A/N: Hey guys! So, this is suppossed to be a one-shot but I know some of you will want me to continue. So, if I get some reviews telling me to, I will, but if you want me to end it here, I was planning to do that, anyway. I know it seems weird to stop it here, but it's kinda mysterious when I read a one-shot and it leaves you hanging.

Your Dreamer,
Mo