Cruel Intentions Journal Novels & Stories

It was my outlet to stay sane, and I used them to tear the ugliness out of my brain and lock them away to burden the books instead of me. These journals contain every horrid, dark and painful memory I never want to examine again. Almost like cutting open my skull and letting the pictures pour out across the floor for him to see in all their detailed glory. I was always a good descriptive writer; it was my therapy, and now sitting here, it’s the worst thing I ever did. I never intended for anyone to see them, let alone Alexi.

LESLIE’S JOURNAL ENTRIES 001 ******* Dear Diary, Scratch that. Dear Journal? Well, you’re sort of pink, handmade and gotten from the roadside stall of a little girl working on some class project so maybe you're really a diary. However, I am going to pretend this is a journal and this is the beginning of me journaling my new life in a new city. I read somewhere online that it’s a therapeutic practice. For me, it’s an escape. The only way I can express myself in a world where I feel more alone than I have ever been.

His throat suddenly felt dry. There were pages, entire pages, of these thoughts. Fantasies. Embarrassingly detailed scenarios of accidental touches with past male friends, stolen glances, imagined moments. Ones that ranged from painfully innocent to heart-thudding bold. Steve stared at the journal, his fingers trembling slightly. He wasn't sure why. Was it rage? Or pity? Then he understood. He could ruin Drake. Right now. One scan. One upload to CWA Undressed. And the entire academy would feast on this like hungry, desperate predators.

The room was warm and dark and quiet. "The journal is for the ninth year," Don said. "And the tenth. And the years beyond. The journal is for the person who will read it when we are no longer here. That person will not have been at the first sitting room fire. That person will not have stood on the Byzantine walls. That person will not have watched the foxgloves spread on the seventh May. But that person will have the journal. The journal will be the container. The content will be life. The translation will carry something of the original."

It was a ledger of human lives reduced to commodities. This wasn't just a network it was an industry of depravity From a subsequent entry one name caught my attention: Ivette…what? How? I was getting more confused. My hands gripped the journal more tightly. It was nearly impossible to bear the betrayal the disgust and the raw rage that was rising inside of me. I had been completely blind. Something hardened inside me a strange desperate resolve. I had to take action.

A blast of cold air rushed up from below, smelling like wet stone, old blood, and something rotten beneath snow. The journal slid across the floor toward the opening. “No!” I lunged for it. Damien caught me tighter. “Leave it.” “No.” “That thing wants you closer.” “The book has been more honest than half the people in this town.” “It is not a person.” “Neither are half the people in this town.” The journal teetered on the edge. Pages fluttering. Glowing. Waiting. Then one page ripped free and flew upward on a burst of silver wind.

She set it on the table between us, her voice scarcely a whisper. “Then let’s see it through to where they left off.” And just like that, everything was different. Her words fell between us like a thunderclap. The journal, its cracked leather cover showing signs of wear and fraying edges, stared back at me. This was it. The key to everything. The truth the Council had covered up, the reason people had died. My fingers tingled to grab it, but I thought better of it.

The person held guilty would be sued for copyright violation and would be punished accordingly. The book does not represent or intend to represent any custom, culture, religion or community and does not intend to hurt anyone's religious, personal or social sentiments. It's purely Fictional so don't try to relate it with the actual world. Historical elements used in this book are purely fictional, they do not intend to represent any historical scenarios or events nor has any link with reality. The book does not promote drugs intake/distribution/promotion and condemns such activities. The book will not hold responsibility for causing any emotional /mental effect to any individual and hence wou

And I had met his father - only just once - and I knew what his father was made of. What was I thinking? That I could kill him because he broke my heart? This plan was stupid in the first place. I had acted in a moment of fury. My eyes did a discreet roll while I was tucked away in the camera's dead zone. What the hell was I thinking? Didn't I know the implications of applying emotions to every action? DING DONG. "Shit!" My eyes skated to the door, and that of Devon. It looked like he would shit in his robe.

We dated some entries a month back, some last week, some yesterday—just chaotic enough to read real. “What would make you bite?” I asked Jennifer as we wrote. She didn’t look up. “Petty cruelty,” she said. “A note to self that isn’t flattering, like ‘L’s temper re: staff tips.’ Or something that makes the reader feel complicit, like ‘don’t tell Marco.’ People don’t salivate over numbers. They salivate over secrets pretending not to be secrets.” I wrote don’t tell M in a margin so cramped it looked embarrassed to exist. The ink bled slightly. Perfect.