Artistic Outcast Novels & Stories

I grabbed the glass of water from his table and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall, the sound slicing through the air. “You want loneliness?” I shouted. “Then live with it because from today, I’m gone…you will never hear my name again.” He stood frozen, guilt painted all over his face, but I didn’t care anymore. I turned to leave, but before I opened the door, I paused and looked back at him. “You destroyed something you’ll never find again,” I said. “And when you realize that, it’ll be too late.”

"Uncontrolled. The complete opposite of what Dmitri commissioned." I pushed myself up onto my elbows. "It's what happens when you crush a person, Ivan. You get fragments, not form." Ivan turned from the canvas, his expression detached. "We crushed the weakness, Leo, not the talent. The talent is still intact. This," he gestured to the chaotic artwork, "is a necessary phase of self-pity. You are attempting to externalize the emotional turbulence you cannot process internally." "No," I argued, my voice hoarse. "This is my mind finally shouting the truth. I am trapped. I am owned. And every hour I spend here is a betrayal of the only life I had."

––•–– Six months later, I stood in my sold-out gallery show, surrounded by people praising my work. Tate was serving time for fraud and embezzlement—turns out Oberin had found evidence of actual crimes, not just artistic theft. My name was cleared, my reputation restored, and I was more successful than I’d ever dreamed. But the best part was the demon standing beside me, his hand resting possessively on my lower back. “You’re being very well-behaved tonight,” I murmured to Oberin. “No inappropriate touching, no dragging me into closets.” “The night is young.” His smile was pure sin. “Besides, I’m planning something much more memorable for when we get home.”

Jenny Choi’s reputation cracked. A formal investigation was launched. Investors pulled out. Artists terminated their contracts en masse. And we? We rose. We turned our vulnerability into a platform—“Restore the Artist.” A documentary series, artist-led workshops, a traveling exhibition featuring those who had left Choi Collective and returned to us or struck out on their own. The tide shifted again. One evening, I returned to the same blank canvas I’d abandoned weeks ago. I picked up my brush. And this time, I painted. I painted a woman with lightning in her veins and roots in her fists. I painted fire and gold and steel. I painted pain. I painted triumph.

Long black nails and fangs appeared again. "I won't hesitate to crush you to dust. It will be easier for me to kill you since you're an outcast!" "Fuck you!" Adrian struggled to free himself from the man's grip. The mysterious man then threw Adrian's body to the ground. "You should be grateful for this. You should have died! Unfortunately, you became an outcast because you disrupted my ritual last night," the man grabbed Adrian's body and slammed him against the wall, "outcasts are the lowest tier of vampires. Blood and night are your life. Your body will crumble if you don't follow your desire to consume blood."

"And what's the name of your piece miss?" "Seasons, it was my final project at school and surprisingly it did really well," I said and they snapped their fingers. "But please, Laid Down and Bold Rest are extremely amazing, go check them out," I said and they left. "Professional artist? Featured here? You?" Michael asked and I cocked my head to the side. "Surprisingly I really thought you'd have tabs on me this entire time," I said crossing my arms over my chest. "Guess I was fooling myself."

Blake's face displayed a deep mix of empathy and curiosity, his eyes locked onto George as he absorbed the heart-wrenching narrative of George and Toby's separation. "After my harrowing escape from the clutches of those scientists, it was Matt who became my guiding light, helping me regain mastery over my inner beast. Those researchers had severely distorted my perception, making me believe that I was a wolf attempting to take on human form, rather than a human with the ability to harness the power of a controlled wolf."

Each word was a dagger, sharpened by years of disappointment—not just from my classmates, but from the entire pack. I wasn’t just an outcast. I was an embarrassment. I kept walking, chin up, even though my chest tightened with the familiar ache of being unwanted. It wasn’t just school— I felt it at home, too. Once, I had been someone’s world. My father had never looked at me like I was broken. He used to tuck me into his arms, brushing his calloused fingers over my hair, whispering, “It’ll come, little wolf. Some take longer.”

Whether Lucas signed the application or not wouldn't stop me from walking away. I returned to the pack and quickly packed everything up, taking all the money Lucas had been transferring me each month without hesitation. Before, I never touched a dime of it. I used the money I earned myself to buy things for him and Finn. Now that I was taking it back, I didn't feel guilty about it at all. I had already sent my résumé to that prestigious school in the Stormcrest pack, and my abortion surgery was scheduled for a few days later. Only then did it finally feel real, as though I was starting to cut everything off.

Like I had something worth fighting for. Not redemption for the past. But the people sitting around this table. My team. My family. And when we marched to the core in three days, I wouldn't be the funny guy anymore. I'd be Brady O'Neil. Scared but standing. Ashamed but trying. Broken but fighting anyway.