Novel & Cerita Cringe Worthy Book

I wave the book in the air, not waiting to hear another word from her when that mischievous look appears on her face again. I walk into my room and click on the lock to the door. I lift the book in the air as I fall against my mattress, and Ashley's name is boldly written at the end of the cover. "Bad Romance..." I mouth as I flip to the first page, my eyes running across the tiny words and I'm only a few minutes in when the sound of my phone interrupts me, and I move to sit up on the bed. Dropping the book to the side, I move off the bed to get my phone and Peter sent me an image.

Twenty-six, with a curvy body she usually hid under oversized sweaters, soft pale skin, and long auburn hair that fell in waves down her back, she lived alone in her grandmother’s old Victorian house on the outskirts of town. Tonight, bored and a little tipsy from red wine, she’d found the old leather-bound book. Ars Goetia scrawled on the cover in faded gold. Flipping through it for fun, she’d traced a strange sigil with her finger while muttering the Latin words under her breath, thinking it was all ridiculous nonsense. The candles flickered violently. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of smoke and something darker, sulfur and sweet musk. A low chuckle echoed through the room.

When I looked at my wrist, I was still bleeding and it did not even stop. And I am afraid of blood.. I want to die. I really had goose bumps when I saw my dark blood flowing. I quivered more as it did not stop from falling the floor. I felt so weak and my knees quivered. I fell down and knelt. "I am sorry, Astra.. please, forgive me.." I had to feel sorry for myself because I just let Astra be this wretched. I never take care of her and never in her life she was valued by her family.

Cold. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle a cough from the thick air. Carefully stepping back, my heel hit something. A shelf. A loud thud hit the floor behind me. “Damn it…” I muttered under my breath, fumbling to pull out my phone. I turned on the flashlight and aimed it toward the object. It was a book. Old. Worn. A diary. I bent down and picked it up. The name on the first page stopped my breath cold.

Now that I am revisiting my first book, I can see why nobody wanted to read this. I'm sitting in my office right now and a lot has changed. I have learned so much and I know that I can do better. This embarrassment of a book is defiling the screen of my laptop. I even had the nerve to put the book up on W*****d. I don't think that it can get any worse than that.

I understand how she felt. In the history of cringe, I had never cringed so much in my life, steel rod clamped in warm hole? "Don't you want me to gobble your kitten I bet it will taste like fresh tomato juice?" It was my turn to cry. I felt worms crawl within me, not thunderbolts or sparks. I felt worms at his words. Drops of tears rolled down my cheeks as I cringed internally, the fact that he tried to make his voice huskier was worse.

broken, unthinkable. And yet… gratitude sat uneasily beside something sharper. Pride. Six years under the Blakes had taught me how to survive without expecting rescue. Survival meant swallowing humiliation, keeping my head down, enduring cruelty while pretending it did not matter. Now, here I was, under another man’s roof. Safe, yes. But not free. Dependent. That word burned more than any bruise.

I had found a cure for Epilepsy. I had been called into meetings, conferences, and interviews… all up and down the city. People congratulated me, sent messages of gratitude, and praised my name. There, I mattered. I could make a difference, but not in this house or with my family. The door creaked. I peeked through, expecting the party to be in full swing. Guests were arriving. Polite greetings. Handshakes. Laughs. Some smiles, some whispers. I caught snippets as I passed the hall, ragged, poor, unworthy…their voices like ice crawling across my skin.