Diary Of A Psychopath Novels & Stories

“Right, Stematography.” “You’re not even sure of the concept,” I parrot. “Tristan… sorry, he-who’s-dead to me is unstable. He’s a sociopath with antisocial disorder. Of course, he has a pattern. Even Dahmer had a pattern.” “We’ve searched every hidden place,” Damon completely ignores my protests and ambles to the center of the room. “What do you see in plain sight?” “I see your stupidity.” “No, I mean plain sight,” he says, popping the ‘P.’

I knew exactly what I was looking for. The diary. It was a small thing; black leather cover, slightly worn at the edges from how often I had held it. I had kept it in this room for years before I left. It was where I wrote everything; every thought about Dean, every fantasy, every shameful confession I could never say out loud. Pages and pages of it, all about him. About how much I wanted him, how much I hated myself for wanting him, how I watched his movies over and over just to see his face.

I opened the diary to the year where I met Pietro. February 27, 2001. I closed my eyes and tried recalling his face. Whitney sat down while looking at me, she waits patiently. I closed the door and hugged the opened diary. I knelt down and started thinking of that year. Slowly, I started chanting To thee I bestow my soul, salvage my bane life back in time. I beseech thy salvation. I bestow my forlorn life to eternity. Grant me your benediction

I had my journal in my hand, somehow I felt a new need to hold on to it everywhere I went. I was with Damien, though I was bruised all over, it was easy to hide the pain. Besides, I was used to being flogged. We were talking about something that made me laugh so hard. It was actually a comedy skit we watched. I almost lost balance, my journal scattered on the ground. I was embarrassed, more embarrassed because the name "Annabelle Steele" was written boldly on its front page.

You are an exconvict. I don't blame anyone for seeing me differently. I am a different man because I have done things I would never mention to survive. I have framed people to get more food. I have hidden things in unmentionable places in my body. I have been served food that had moss growing on it. I have suffered for a crime I did not commit, so anyone could understand if I have anger in my heart.

His chest felt tight, a knot of anxiety twisting with each beat of hisheart. His hands trembled, the tremors betraying the turmoil inside. His pulse hammered, a chaotic mix of pain, want, and something else—something he wasn't ready to name, something that felt dangerously like hope, a traitorous "icker in the darkness. Then, without thinking, driven by an impulse he didn't understand, a desperate need to contain the chaos, to shut out the world, he grabbed the chain. The metal wascold and rough against his skin as he yanked, the heavy bay door groaning in protest as it began its descent.

Or, it may be something that I can work with him on, to get him to accept just like when it happened with Asher and Dan, and maybe even enjoy, but I chose my diary instead of confessing to my husband. It was locked down, the boys and I were on a little break and the only cock I had in my hot pussy was David, my husband. I wanted to explore, but I couldn’t since I'd vowed to the boys that I belonged to them alone. Without the boys, I turned to my diary to pen down how I met my husband.

My dick throbbed reading the details, pre-cum soaking my boxers as I pictured Damien in those moments, muscles flexing, grunting, lost in pure lust. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered, scrolling faster. Deeper entries talked about pain too. Losses. A guy he loved who left him wrecked. Vulnerabilities mixed in with the dirty confessions. It felt too real, too exposed. The floor creaked. I slammed the laptop shut but it was too late. Damien stood right there, glass in hand, face shifting from surprise to anger in a heartbeat. “What the fuck, Alex?” he snapped, voice low and sharp as he set the whiskey down hard. “You digging through my shit? That file is locked for a reason.”

The Devil's Gaze Mirabella let out a soft laugh, leaning slightly forward on the polished counter, her fingers now wrapped around a glass of sparkling lemonade. Mario, the grey-haired bartender with eyes that still held a glint of wild youth, had just told her a story about a drunk politician who'd once mistaken the stage for a urinal. "And he pissed right there on stage," Mario said, wiping a glass dry with a knowing grin. "Stage lights and all. He damn near gave the girls a stroke."