Born Of Frustration Novels & Stories

Staring at the way Salem was struggling right now, she felt so perversely smug deep down inside that she totally forgot about restraining herself as she vented all the resentment she had harbored over the past few years. "What else did you contribute to my birth back then other than sperm? Do you know what kind of life I lived as a child? Do you know how hard my life was back when everyone said that I was an illegitimate daughter raised by a mistress? Do you know how many disdainful looks and gossip I have been subjected to? As a father, where were you back then? Why did you have me if you didn't want to give me a normal family? I hate you, I sincerely wish death upon you!" Perversion, desol

Shame and embarrassment crept up in me like a fog, wrapping its smoke-like hands around my neck, suffocating me, restricting me from air flow as I looked at her with hatred in my arms. I do not know what I am angry about Her circumstances? She was unable to control them. The way I was born? The fact that the blood of some nameless John or Tom was in my veins, that I was a product of something so dirty The words "You devil spawn' echoed in my mind, along with another "Tainted, dirty blood" "You are a product of something so dirty, nothing can take that away, you might be a king in Italy, but nothing can change the fact that you are the son of a prostitute, a trafficked whore"

To ensure the surgery's success, Jeremy did not administer a sufficient amount of anesthesia to me. I could even feel the scalpel slicing through my flesh and the scissors severing my tissues—it hurt so much. Whenever a person got scared, they would usually instinctively call out for their mother. But as soon as I opened my mouth, I suddenly snapped back to reality—I no longer had a mother. Jeremy raised an eyebrow and looked at me. With disgust, he spat out, "I can't believe you're a fake! No wonder you don't look anything like our family! All the affection we gave you was wasted!"

But Felix yelled at me the moment he saw the bruises on my skin, which were caused by a coagulation disorder. “You witch! Are you really that desperate for men?! “You cheated on me thinking that I was going blind! Now, after losing sight in one of your eyes, you come running back to me?! You’re staying by my side forever to pay for what you did!” I could not tell them that I was their donor. It was simply because I did not want my husband and daughter to feel guilt for their entire lives. However, I did not expect that keeping this a secret would make them hate me and hurt me so wantonly.

My eyes—too silver in the low light—give me away if I don’t keep my gaze lowered. I dress quickly. Black trousers. Long-sleeved shirt. Boots worn thin from too many roads. I wipe down every surface I touched, methodical, practiced. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I learned young that grief is a luxury. As I bend to retrieve my bag, the memory hits without mercy. Blood. Moonlight. My mother screaming. I was born under a fractured moon, they said. The sky split white, then red. Selene Noctis, my mother, had held me once before her body gave out, before the power tore through her like it had been waiting for breath.

Sue was so furious that she started slapping Dad across the face without mercy. A woman who had spent her life doing farm work was no weaker than a man, so after only two slaps, several of Dad's teeth had already been knocked out. Sue howled, "You beast! When I married you, Derek was only a teenager. You practically watched him grow up. How could you lay a hand on him like that? And you're both men! You're going to wipe out our family line!"

“What’s the deal with that? Is she grooming you to be her daughter-in-law or something?” … Or something. “Hell,” I snap, “like her, Kiara and I just enjoy female company now and then, alright? Is that a crime?” Three days of frustration are jammed inside me, vibrating like an overfilled pressure cooker — personal frustration, emotional frustration, environmental frustration, sexual frustration, situational frustration. Take your pick. “Guess not.” His voice is now much softer. I feel a flicker of guilt for barking at him — but it dies fast.

Frustration welled up inside me like a tempest brewing on the horizon, its approach signaled by darkening skies and an electric charge that coursed through every fiber of my being, a potent mix of disappointment and helplessness that left me feeling irretrievably stuck and uncertain, like a ship without anchor or rudder, tossed about on a sea of conflicting emotions, with waves of discontent crashing against the shores of my soul, each one wearing me down, bit by bit, grain by grain, until I felt like I was disappearing into the depths, lost in a labyrinth of my own making, with no thread to guide me out, no Ariadne's string to lead me back to solid ground, and the more I struggled to find m

The chatter quieted. “My old man told me something interesting,” he went on, slow and loud. “Said his mother died screaming when she gave birth to him.” A few gasps. A few whispers. Rylan shrugged like it was nothing. “Too weak to handle a real birth, I guess. Means he’s cursed, obviously a bad luck from the start.” He tilted his head at me. “Pack’s reject.” The words didn’t hit like punches. They hit deeper. For a second, I couldn’t hear the stream. Couldn’t hear the crowd.

[TRISTAN'S POV] I have always been mad. Born into chaos. Raised on violence. Baptized in the frozen Moskva River by a wife who believed weakness was a disease cured only by drowning. Forty-five years breathing, and every single one soaked in someone else's suffering. Mad is what I am. Mad is all I've ever been. But this? This is something else entirely.