For you first time readers, I hope you enjoy my first novel and please review!

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I've decided that fate exists. Why, you ask, have I suddenly arrived at this conclusion after an entire life of cynicism?

It all boils down to this: self-confidence. Fate is real, of course, but only in our heads. Humans are a marvelous example of the constant need to be re-assured. 'Are you sure the dog doesn't bite?' 'Are you sure these pants don't make me look fat?' Why? Low self-confidence. By believing fate, by cooking up something nonexistent force christened fate in our heads, we ultimately come to the conclusion that we cannot control our lives, that we're destined for whatever ending has been predetermined.

I used to believe that people set their own destiny. That's not true anymore. Maybe it's because my self-confidence is completely wrecked, or maybe it's because I've realized that my entire life has been planned for me from birth. To tell the truth, that's the part about my fate that bothers me the most, that it wasn't some supernatural force that determined my life, but a string of ancient Indus wackjobs with nothing better to do. In other words, my ancestors.

I have a feeling, though, that if I had never met John, if I had never met Zeke Jenkins, my life would be completely different. Of course, apparently, I was 'destined' to meet the old man and that John Doe just came along with the entire package of all this magical crap, but I wonder daily if I could have changed things.

I look up from the podium, shaking my head as I force myself back to the task at hand. I clear my throat, avert my eyes back to my speech. I wrote it on the three-hour plane trip to the trial a week ago, hunched over my tray table with a box of tissues sitting needlessly at my side and a cramp in my thumb right from the get-go. It's not exactly what I call quality literature, but it's a eulogy. They're supposed to be cheesy. At least, that's what I'm told.

Being here is depressing. I wonder if I, too, like every Handler before me, am walking into a premature death, just like my mother and grandfather. We're the smallest drops of moral in a sea of immorality, and pretty soon we're all going to be washed up. I wonder what the point is. Why do we continue to fight this demented evolution?

Zeke's voice springs into my head, his voice raspy and his words original, different from the ones that have been appearing over the past few weeks. "You can't surrender to them, Meg. That's what they want. They'll kill you whether or not you have the Book because face it. You got in their way. You made things difficult. And you have to keep trying, you must, because without you, the Book will die. The magic will be gone. Evil will rule again."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling nauseous and like I belong in some stupid after-school television special. This is ridiculous. Who am I fooling? I'm not supernatural. I'm not extraordinary. I'm Meg Cole, a teenage girl terrorized by her schizophrenic boyfriend and haunted by death.

Oh, and also, I happen to hold the one key to civilization's morality. That too.

John used to tell me how wonderful I was, how good I was. I never believed him. I guess I'm a whole lot more incredible than him, the liar, the manipulator, but still not so remarkable. I have secrets, sure, but who doesn't? The difference is that I hate myself, that I hate my life, and above all, I hate him. I hate facing the reality of my daily life and the fact that I could die at any moment.

I think it would have been better if he'd just lied in the trial. I've never liked liars, especially not ones with good teeth. But somehow I find myself wishing that—even if just to appease—he'd pleaded not guilty.

The evidence against him was overwhelming, of course. Legally, I'm sure it was more beneficial to his case to do what he did—grumble a guilty and hope for the best. But it's astonishing the number of sleepless nights I spent curled up in a ball in my bed, playing my fantasy seen over and over again. Him, up there, his hand on that Bible, looking me directly in the eye and sneering just like he always used to, "Not guilty. She imagined the whole thing."

I wish I had imagined the whole thing. I wish I was going insane.

I'm finally finished, and the church begins to clear out. We're quiet, subdued, and nobody dares to look at me. My family doesn't believe what I've told them about the Book, except Jim and Bri, of course. If I can be grateful for one thing, it's that they're by my side yet not endangered in any way. They're unaffiliated with the Book. They're my support. To everybody else, though, I'm the lying little girl who's terrified of her ex-boyfriend.

It's a cloudy day, the sun shriveled up behind a mass of darkness. Kind of like me. Shriveled up. Useless. We step outside into the muggy air, feeling our hair explode under the humidity, and the crowd bunches up. I take Sabrina's hand, and she smiles sadly up at me.

"You alright?"

"No."

She nods understandingly, looking forward. Some idiot is taking twelve years and blocking the path, so we wait, a large, grieving black mass on a journey to the cemetery. As we stand beneath the formidable sky, I feel a person brush against me. I'm mildly annoyed, tense, and turn to scream at the person for daring to touch me. As I swivel around, however, to see nobody, I feel a wadded-up piece of paper in my fist, one that wasn't there before. I unfold it and silently read the words, eyes growing wide as oranges as I drink in the information.

As soon as I'm finished, I feel myself falling, slipping onto the cement, my head colliding with the ground. I drift into a rapidly-arriving sleep, the pain in my head mingling with the whiteness and shock of what's happened. I'm unaware as the note floats to the ground and is trampled on by feet as people run to my assistance. Nobody will ever know what the note says, except, of course, for me.

I'll be seeing you soon, Meg. Love always, John.