Bitter Truths Novels & Stories

“You think I dont see what you're doing? Playing the victim, charming him with your little innocent act—” “Oh please!” I interrupted my voice sharp with a sudden overwhelming frustration. “You’re a pathetic manipulative schemer trying to sink her claws into Alexander! Just like all the others?” My patience had broken like a very thin thread. The words hung in the air blunt ugly and completely true. “Stop acting like you're the only one who sees the truth Alissa! You're so consumed by your own bitterness your own pain that you cant see anything clearly! Why are you so bitter? And so pained? What exactly happened to make you so utterly miserable that you have to take it out on everyone around

Mine are stories about and for those who face overcoming or succumbing. Reality turned to fiction as a coping mechanism. There will be triggers for survivors. Some of the beginnings, middles and endings are not what I would wish on anyone. But sadly, these are the truths many have to overcome. We are all sisters and brothers; we have choices in a world that teaches us we are objects. You are not alone. I encourage you to seek healing if you need it. There is always the choice... Be Better, not bitter. Thank you for considering my scribbles. Be Blessed.

The sharp and attractive square jawline moved slightly, he answered the other's question: "Old Fashioned" The bartender responded with a nod and then started his bartender, leaving him to wait by slamming the phone furiously. The wine glass was pushed in front of him, taking a sip. Bitter taste of Angostura Bitter is light of orange peel, a little sweetness of cane sugar is full of sweetness of Bourbon Whiskey. Those were the things he tasted, like the memories with the lover that became old a few minutes ago came back. The sweet taste like when she said she loved him with sweet words, the bitter taste when she said she loved him, but the feelings were slowly being shared with others. It all

Bastien's POV(Special Chapter) The world is made of pain and the taste of my own blood. It’s a simple truth, carved into me over weeks in the dark. But the pain isn’t the worst part. The worst part is the knowing. The awful, gut-churning clarity that hits you when the lies are stripped away, and all you’re left with is the rotting truth.

“Stop!” Beatrice screams, snapping a bit into the insanity that is shaking her void. Creaking a crack to the blood moon, killing the crows one by one after its howl of pain and deception. Burning the dark forest and slowly, while turning the already decaying corpse like smell worst than anyone could ever imagine it could be. “No matter how you deny everything. The truth will always come to you like a howling crow in the middle of the night and as painful as a devil skinning you alive.”

_*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> The first thing was the flavor, which was the most complex thing he had ever tasted, not in the sense of sophistication but in the sense of honesty, the specific complexity of something that was not trying to be anything other than what it was. Sweet where recognition was sweet, bitter where truth was bitter, and underneath both of those something that had no flavor category, something that was the specific taste of knowledge that had been waiting to be received. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> He swallowed. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> The world changed.

Blood dripped from the corner of my mouth. I looked up at him through my tears, yet his eyes were calm. "Apologize to Henry and Linda!" I retorted sarcastically, "Why should I apologize to a b*stard?" Linda cried beside us. "Mr. Rivers, Henry isn't illegitimate. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have given birth to Henry, making him the subject of gossip. I shouldn't have brought Henry back to claim his rightful place." Her words further enraged Jonathan. He grabbed me and dragged me all the way to the dim basement.

I’m willing to bet a majority of the horses here were dumped off because their previous owners weren’t prepared to take on that responsibility in some way or another. “Ready to get out of here for a bit?” Dr. Brenden asks, taking his hat off and running his hand through his hair. He’s older and can come off a bit gruff. I don’t think his “hard truth” speech at the Horse Fair went over well with everyone in the audience, but I know where he’s coming from. You can only take so much before you become bitter.

He tilted his head, looking at me with new respect. “Very well. I accept your terms. You ask. I answer. I will not lie. But be warned… the truth is often darker, sharper, harder to bear than the pretty lies I tell to protect you. Once you know it… you cannot un-know it. And it will change how you see everything. Including me.” “I can handle it,” I replied instantly, confidently. “I am a Hartwell, remember? We do not run from the truth.” “Good. Then let us begin.”

The taste of bile lingered for hours, a bitter reminder that my body was rebelling against the lies I had fed it for years. I started keeping a quiet log in my study — times, severity, what I had eaten the night before. Nothing helped. Black coffee made it worse. The herbal tea Kathryn brewed only settled my stomach for an hour before the next wave hit. She watched me with quiet worry, her fingers brushing my forehead as if checking for fever. I told her it was the pressure of the remaining board disputes and the quiet financial bleed from the severed Valez contracts. She believed me because she loved the version of me that was steady, ambitious, finally at peace with her.