Born Of Frustration Novels & Stories

They can unearth something buried deep in the psyche, causing a monster to emerge where a man once stood. Frank was that monster. He was a man filled with hatred and frustration, emotions he could never seem to master or release in healthy ways. He physically projected this turmoil onto his family, turning what should have been a sanctuary into a battlefield. Most days in the Napier household descended into chaos, punctuated by shouting and the constant threat of violence.

“What is wrong, baby? Why are you crying, Keana? Did your brother hurt you? “I just got frustrated with something, mummy. I looked at my five-year-old daughter, wondering what would possibly make her frustrated. Does she even know what the words mean? It got me a little. “Tell me what the problem is, my darling. “I was just trying to write a poem but I couldn't get the words to come out right. I kept starting over and over again, but it just wasn't working and it made me cry, mummy. "It's okay, butterfly; sometimes inspiration doesn't come easy. It's normal to get frustrated when you're trying to create something and it's not working out the way you want it to. She nodded. "I know, mummy, bu

My hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, the frustration and anger yet to simmer down, they still curled tightly around my limbs and the grief inside my chest was still too heavy—too raw. The windshield wiper worked furiously to keep up with the rain, but the road ahead was still a chore to see but my mind was all over the place. How was I to confront them? The thought of seeing them brought a fresh pain of hurt to me. My chest tightened as I thought about the words the people were saying about me and the baby that I hadn't even given birth to. A lump formed in my throat. I barely registered where I was going as the lines of trees blurred into shadows and the road seemed to tightened.

I cursed, shouted, and swore, venting every ounce of frustration at the pack, at Erebus, at myself . I stomped hard on bowls, and objects in the room,kicking, breaking and yelling all out bent my frustration. I buried my face in my hands, sobbing, trembling. The anger and humiliation of the past hours surged through me. Every memory of betrayal, every wound, every snide remark from Erebus replayed in my mind. My misery felt endless, my powerlessness magnified with every step I had taken. “Fuck this place! Fuck you for getting mated to some little miss oerfext and keaving me , fuck this stupid new family! Fuck everyone!" My voice echoed through the empty hall, a raw scream of despair and de

~Ezinne~ I let out a heavy sigh as I leaned over to kick-start the treadmill. My usual pace was a modest five, a leisurely walk to clear my mind. But today, fuelled by frustration, I cranked it up to ten, launching into a sprint. I had come to the gym so early. The gym was deserted, bathed in the soft light of dawn, save for Rhea, who watched me like a hawk. I was determined to outrun the relentless frustration that had consumed me, unable to shake off the nagging sense of unease that plagued my every thought. I couldn't fathom what was going on with me lately. I didn't like how petty I was becoming and hated the little things that kept hurting me.

I did my best to make her happy so that she won't leave me. I did my all! Bastards! You will pay for this! I will make you pay! With your lives! Damn it! I gritted my teeth and my face made a furious expression. I can't stop myself from trembling so much. My whole body was shaking from anger, frustration, sadness and confusion. How dare they kill my wife?! And my......unborn child?! How can they kill an innocent child who's not even born and had seen the world?! Has ther conscience got eaten by their wrong doings?

He was aware of all of it and it was, today, not a source of the complicated warmth it had recently become but a source of something that he was forced to identify, with some reluctance, as frustration. Not anger. He was careful about anger — it was imprecise, and imprecision was something he had very little use for. But frustration: the specific friction of a situation that required him to move at a pace that was not his natural pace, toward an outcome he could see clearly and could not reach.

Clara muttered at a loss. ‎ ‎Inside the room, the anger finally exploded. Liam ripped off his uniform jacket and threw it across the room. ‎ ‎Everything suddenly felt too tight; too loud; too... unfair. ‎ ‎He shoved a box off the table. It crashed against the wall. ‎ ‎Another bag followed.His suitcase tipped over as he kicked it aside, "I hate this!” he shouted. ‎ ‎His chest heaved as the frustration poured out of him .He hated his mother. He hated this stupid town. He hated the way everything kept getting ruined.

Frustration ripped through him. Not-fucking-close-enough. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry."

The stark realization struck me – here I was, birthing our child, and yet his discomfort gained a fleeting spotlight in my mind. The absurdity of it pushed me to grip even harder, a sharp "Artemy!" hissed through gritted teeth. Was his discomfort truly comparable to what I was enduring? My frustration seeped into the pressure of my fingers, a mix of pain and power. But then he released my hand, and a different ache blossomed within me – the ache of his absence, however brief. Did he withdraw because of my outburst? Regret momentarily eclipsed the pain, and I struggled to understand whether my own actions were justified.