Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

June 13,2024 Dear Reader, If you’ve found this diary, then fate has strange plans for you. This isn’t a story of heroes, or even of the living. What you’re about to read isn’t fiction — not entirely. These pages carry the weight of things unseen, unheard, and often misunderstood. So before you turn another page, ask yourself: Are you ready to see the world through the eyes of someone who walks among both the living and the dead? If not, close this now.

But, The ones above were harder to reach, forcing me to stretch, my fingers roaming blindly across the upper shelves. Suddenly, something solid brushed against my fingertips. Frowning, I pulled it free. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. A black diary falls right at my feet. Frowning, I picked it up out of curiosity. Its leather cover was worn, its pages yellowed with age. My heart skipped as I picked it up, and curiously opened to the first page... A date stared back at me— it was 27th August, 2005. “A twenty year old diary in the bathroom cabinet? What the hell?”

Jackson uttered, stepping closer towards me. “Yes but I know when to give up trying to fight and believe it or not, I have,” I muttered, walking away as my heart raced. If Jackson could easily see through my act, it was only a matter of time till Kaelion found out. Without looking back, I hurried into my room and locked the door behind me. I then brought out a small old diary that I had earlier taken from the library in one of the boxes before Kaelion woke up. “The history of the Obsidian fang pack,” The cover of the diary read, further sparking my curiosity.

“That’s not possible, Rosy. I don’t believe in us anymore and I'm married.” Then a sudden sound sliced through the air, a slow, cold clap making them freeze. Rosy turned first, and her face went pale. George’s throat went dry knowing the familiar scent. Thalia stood at the doorway, her eyes red and cold, a small diary clutched in her hand. The pool lights flickered across her face, catching the glint of the tears on her cheeks. Rosy traced her face to her hands, seeing the diary she was holding, she recognized the diary instantly.

Aside from his expensive, empty belongings, there was no trace of us anywhere. It was so clean it suffocated him. While sorting through Nora's desk, Marcus's fingers touched something hard caught in the gap of the drawer. He pulled it out. It was a forgotten diary. On the cover, written in childish letters, were the words: My Mister. Marcus's fingers began to shake violently. He opened the first page. [Date: My asthma hurt so much. Daddy went to hold Jacey because she was scared of the dark. Mommy covered my eyes and told me to call him Mister.]

" I lowered my gaze to the card again. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was looking for answers that didn't exist. Ryder had already told me. I talked too much. I slept. That was it. Still... I couldn't bring myself to throw the card away. Instead, I walked toward my bookshelf and pulled out the leather-bound diary I had kept since I was sixteen. Between pages filled with old memories, pressed flowers, random sketches, and thoughts I'd never shared with anyone... I carefully slipped the black key card inside. Closed the diary. Then slid it back into its place. Hidden.

I shrieked, the towel clutched tighter to my chest. He turned slowly, a book in his hand. My stomach dropped. It wasn’t just a book. It was my diary. The one with the cheap floral cover, the one I’d hidden beneath a pile of sweaters in my bottom drawer. I took it out last night and forgot to return it back there. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked from my face to the diary, then back again. A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips.

“What mai—” The words died as I followed her gaze. A plain brown envelope lay beside her boot. My brows snapped together. “Who the hell dropped this?” I muttered, crouching to snatch it up. We never got mail. Not bills, not flyers, nothing. Wrong house, I almost decided until I flipped it over and saw the two words scrawled in precise black ink across the front: To Little Thief. My heart did a sickening flip. Little Thief. Only one person had ever called me that.

I growle, shoving him hard against the glass wall until he gasps for air. Vance slumps against the glass, defeated and shaking, leaving the dropped journal lying wide open in the mud between our boots. I release his collar with a disgusted flick of my wrist, letting him slide down onto the gravel while my attention snaps downward toward the exposed pages of the fallen book. The dim moonlight filters through the greenhouse roof, illuminating the familiar, precise handwriting scrawled across the open paper entries. My breath catches sharply in my throat as I recognize the unmistakable script immediately, realizing it does not belong to any faculty member or council archivist. I drop to one kne

​The morning air in Oakhaven was sharp, carrying the scent of pine and impending rain. I sat on a crate in the square, my mind reeling as Dorian spread the contents of a rusted metal box across the wooden table between us. It was a time capsule of a life I barely remembered: polaroid photos of faces I couldn't name, letters written in a youthful, looping script, and a dried flower pressed inside a diary.