Confessions Anonymous Novels & Stories

I called out, hardly more than a whisper. Adrian turned to me, his eyes locking into mine, full of an immense dark concern. I sucked in a deep breath; they tumbled out from my lips like a confession. "Samuel is culpable of the state my mom is into," my voice trembled with emotion and like a whimper, I confessed. "I said to him, after my research, I found out that he has a hand in it." These words seemed to hang in the air like an accusation, an exposure, as I was waiting for Adrian's board.

“Tonight, I give you a stage. The question is—will you step into the light?” She reached for the leather folder on the table beside her, opening it to reveal a carefully prepared set of encrypted chat logs, digital traces, and notes scrawled in Domica’s looping cursive. Then she held up a flash drive. “Inside here are the identities of six anonymous users who messaged me... all with the same phrase.” “Velvet looks good soaked in blood.” “I’m going to stream for one hour. If you have a confession, a message, or something to show me, now’s your time.”

he shrugs, “whatever would have happened after that is above my paygrade,” “So you were hired to find him?” “Yes,” “Who hired you?” Deacon asks. “No idea, my partner and I offer an anonymous service, cash on delivery. No names, no faces, no questions,” he says proudly and I wish he was lying because I want to wipe that smug look off of his face. “Is everything you've told me the truth?” Deacon asks, his words laced with power this time. “Yes,” “Well this was a waste of time,” I sigh and stand to leave.

“What are you talking about?” “They went live,” I said, words tumbling out faster than I could catch them. “On some anonymous stream. They looked… awful. Hair chopped uneven, no makeup, like they hadn’t slept in days. They confessed. Everything. The accident. The threats. The body-shaming. The racism toward Raina. Stealing from charities. Manipulating you. Plotting with Hudson. They named names, dates, details. And they apologized. Over and over. To me. To you. To everyone.”

Abhi asked, his voice low and dangerously controlled. "We don't know! We got an anonymous call. She said she knew us through a guy who worked in our garage a year ago. We're just mechanics, okay? Sometimes we steal or scare people for money, that's it," he confessed, desperation clear in his voice. "How did she pay you, then?" Arun interjected, his irritation mounting. "Through the same guy who told her about us," the chubby guy stammered, his eyes darting between Arun and Abhi.

“Touché, my clever donor. If you continue to display such promise, I might write you into scripture when the time comes. Let’s do this, shall we: You continue to play on the arrogance you have detected in me, and I will continue to show you why it is my right to be arrogant. Then, if we are still at a stalemate, I shall reveal to you where you have made your error. Fair enough? Until then, then. Anon and adios.” “Wait!” I’d gathered the courage, collected the name on my tongue ready to lay it out there for his reaction, but he was gone. As the question surrounding the name retreated to the compartment where it was kept under a watchword that had never been provided to my conscious self, mayb

I spent the next twenty minutes conducting a campaign I would never speak of to another living person, armed with the dish rack and a broom I found behind the door and the cold focused energy of a woman who had run a criminal network across six countries and was not going to be defeated by vermin in a tenement apartment. By the end I was standing on the kitchen counter breathing hard with the broom across my knees and the apartment temporarily clear. I climbed down, washed my hands three times, sat at the kitchen table which wobbled if you leaned on the left side and opened my laptop. The anonymous message was still there from earlier. I closed it and reopened it four times. “You built somet

Silence settled—not awkward, not tense. Honest. “I wasn’t sure if I should say this,” he continued. “I’ve practiced it a dozen times. Every version sounded wrong.” I felt my pulse quicken. “You don’t have to—” “I do,” he interrupted gently. “I’ve waited long enough.” My fingers curled around the edge of the table. This was it. Not the beginning. The reckoning. “I used to think confessions were selfish,” Darius said. “That telling someone how you feel only shifts the burden onto them.”

Not impatiently, but with the measured assurance of a surgeon asking where it hurt. The question was the pinprick that burst the dam. The words, bottled so long, brimming with guilt and fear and nightmare thrill, burst out. They were not loud. They were a whisper, torn from the darkest, most fragmented part of him, a confession whispered into the holy quiet of their common ground. "I don't know who I am anymore."

Still, I open my phone. Her number hovers on the screen, my thumb hesitates and before I can press it, a message appears, it was anonymous. “You shouldn’t have looked, Dominic.” The sender’s tag blinks once and then disappears, I stare at the empty screen. The room feels suddenly smaller, the hum of the city distant and hollow. Whoever sent that message knows exactly what I found which means they would be watching, they’ve been watching for a while. I save the fragments of the ledger onto a hidden drive, encrypt it under a new alias. The Elia Trust. Stanley and Daniel.