Novel & Cerita Confessions Of An English Opium-eater

older woman nodded her head and her gaze fell on Roslyn again. “Is Pa getting any better?” asked Roslyn as she stared at her sleeping father. He looked much older, with visible wrinkles on his face; Roslyn’s mother said nothing for a minute, she glance at her husband too with an inaudible sigh. Well, thank God he’s still breathing.” She began, “often he gets confused about his environment, and he can’t get out of bed without my help. Your Pa doesn’t eat much and he hardly sleeps at night he only sleeps when he feels less pain.” Mrs. Williams began to tear up; she fumbled for a handkerchief in her bag and wipes away her coral eyes. The agony she feels in her heart had gotten to her face and

************** Chapter 1: Desperation I rushed through the crowded streets, my heels clicking on the wet pavement. Another late night, another shift at the diner. My uncle's debt was suffocating us, and I was running out of options. "Ari, you're late again," Martha, my coworker, said as I burst through the diner's door. "Sorry, Martha. Traffic," I lied, grabbing my apron. The night blurred together—endless orders, tired smiles, and pocket change tips. As the clock struck midnight, I counted my meagre earnings. Not enough. Never enough.

my wolf whispers eagerly as I swirl the jug, ensuring the powder is fully dissolved. I find a tray and place the jug and a cup on it. Then I add a small piece of bread, just to make it look like a proper meal for a prisoner. The servants will think nothing of it if they see me carrying it. Or would they? Well that is their business- I don't care. But what if they even think I am being compassionate, bringing food to my poor, suffering sister. What do I even care about what they think!? I am so disappointed in myself. This is why I get in my head and miss important parts of a plan like wearing an eggplant dress instead of a red dress

As he chomped away one of his guests began talking about his investments. 'I've already made a killing betting against the pound, just think what we will do if we flog the whole ship!' Their lips greasy with fat but their finger-tips dry, they ate the lamb and drank red burgundy. They chatted and giggled excitedly. Their faces, human at first, glowing with a mildly sweaty sheen, began to change as chortle turned to open mouthed laugh, until they became entirely porcine, like Orwell’s pigs in inverse, frenzied at the thought of a trough of gold.

My skin raised goosepimples as he took pleasure in drip feeding me information. "We shared some words actually. I enjoyed telling him how I completely wiped out his brother at cards back in London. Only a few weeks ago. It took me a couple of nights. Like a fisherman reeling in a big one I let him win a couple and them…" and in his drunken exultation he giggled like a child. "...then I took it all! Every last penny!" His withered frame, emaciated and fragile rested against the door frame. His thcik waistcoat, gilded buttons and extrvagng cravat could not hide his illness.

As I bit into it, i had crazy flash backs to last night and began to wonder if I had washed up properly and silently prayed that there were no little traces of the sleeping pills in the bowls that I had used I chewed slowly for a while and mum noticed the look on my face. "Are you alright Bailey? Doesn't it taste good." I swallowed hard. Only time would tell if I would collaspe in tiredness or not. "It tastes good mum. Honestly, it just reminded me of something." "Really? A's that?" My brain worked double time to find a suitable answer. "The Queen of England." "Really? The Queen?" "Yes. The muffin has this very regal taste to it and I read that the British do love muffins." Mum chuckled and

He seemed to be enjoying himself, his eyes never left mine once. “You have no idea what you've done for me. Haven't had a thing to eat all day.” he said after taking the last of the third cupcake. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Why not?” “Money problems,” he shrugged. Ah, of course. I looked him up and down again and realized something. He was so handsome that I forgot that he was wearing clothes that I could only describe as from the slums. They were even worse than the clothes I wore and I only wore hand me downs from other maids in the pack house.

… By the third month of living abroad, I met a foreigner named Jansen Peters. He was a businessman who spoke flawless English. Not only was he fierce in business, he was also equally intense in other ways. In the days since being thoroughly cherished by him, I had lived happily every single day. Meals appeared the moment I wanted them, and I barely had to lift a finger. Even my father complained that Jansen spoiled me far too much. Jansen merely smiled, lowering his gaze as he wrapped an arm protectively around my waist to stop me from bouncing around and falling.

“Entry Thirty-One: This is the deepest confession. It’s not about pleasure. It’s about being broken. Taken. It’s a fantasy of force so complete it absolves me of choice.” Ophelia’s movements became frantic. This was the core of it, the shameful, pulsing heart of her diary.