Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

She marvelled at her erratic heart beats and wondered if they would ever get normal in his presence. As she searched her bag for the comb, she found the small handpocket sized diary that she bought in a thrift store a long time back. She opened it and skimmed through the enty pages of the book when a crazy creative idea popped up. Smiling to herself, she picked a pen from the nearby table as she decided to write about all the beautiful memories she had with Ronan the previous day. This way, she can relive them whenever she wanted without missing out on even the smallest details. Excerpts from Anya's Diary:

He’s so easy to manipulate when he’s nostalgic. Day 12: She’s getting suspicious. I need to ramp up the symptoms. Fainting spell tomorrow? My hands shook as I turned the pages. It was all there. The calculation. The malice. But a diary could be dismissed as venting or fiction. Elise could claim she was writing a novel. I needed something physical. Something medical. I put the diary back and turned to the nightstand. The three pill bottles were there. Digoxin. Warfarin. Furosemide.

I muttered as I ran toward my chambers, driven by a strange pull, a gut feeling that something was there waiting for me. In my room, I scanned my surroundings, something drawing me to a concealed compartment behind my bookshelf. I opened it, finding a small, worn book—a diary. My heart sank as I opened it, the words inside telling a dark, familiar story. This wasn’t just any diary; this was Luna Nora’s collection of secrets, a meticulous record of every vile act, every betrayal. The curses, the deaths, the machinations that had torn my family apart—it was all here.

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.

I turned to him and a skinny schoolboy stood by the door, "he must be my doctor," I thought, I reached behind my trousers, to check for my pistol but it was of course not there. My memories were a little fuzzy, and my head was pounding. "I had to give you so much anastatic...maybe a little too much, because you kept waking up, and even though you wouldn't scream or show any sign of pain, it was weird how you kept staring at me, it felt as if you were threatening to kill me or something." He kept on talking and explaining and I just stood there staring at him. After a brief moment of silence, throughout which he appeared uncomfortable and ready to flee if I made any attempt of getting close t

I try to clear all roaming thoughts and instead fill my mind with thoughts of water, I think of ocean waves, and tsunamis, and pouring rain, I steady my breathing and imagine the glass overflowing with water. I open my eyes and gaze at the glass and a pool of water erupts from it. Suddenly, water is everywhere. I'm in a trance which I can't seem to stop. The water is pooling out of the glass aggressively, in abundant amounts and now the entire kitchen is almost filled with water. But I don't want to stop. I don't feel like I need to stop. It's almost like my powers have a mind of their own now and they're fighting to break free, but I don't want to control them.

To give them the reaction they came for. Bianca steps forward angrily. “You bitch—” I catch her wrist. “Don’t.” “But, Angel—” “Please.” My voice is so quiet that even I barely hear it. I look down at the books scattered across the wet pavement. Then I see it. My diary. It lies beside them, its leather cover splashed with coffee. Everything inside me goes still—I can replace my hoodie. I can buy new textbooks. I can wash the coffee from my skin.

I closed my eyes, trembling as tears escaped and fell into the food. "Happy birthday, Eleanor Shaw," I whispered to myself. "Keep moving forward—onward forever. Even if no one loves you, there's still light at the end of the tunnel. As Jeffrey said, you have enjoyed over 20 wonderful years of wealth and privilege. You've had it good." Just like that, I repeated words of comfort to myself as I wiped away my tears. I moved all my belongings that I had sorted out over the past two weeks in the living room.

When I turn eighteen and leave the orphanage, I can give them all to him at once. I hide the notebook in a crack between the cabinets and use a plastic ruler to retrieve it. I just got it out, but before I can hide it, Leya comes into the room. She's a normal girl and her butt isn't fat anymore; she's lost weight since we were ten. Leya doesn't know about the diary though, so I shove it under the mattress by the headboard and cover it with a pillow. Lucky, my talisman, sits next to my pillow. I know I can trust him.

Beside it was a mask—a delicate filigree of platinum that covered only the upper half of her face. She put it on. Looking in the mirror, she didn't see the woman who had planted a garden in Romania. She saw the woman who had outplayed the Architect. She saw a Panni. But as she reached for her earrings, she saw something else. On the nightstand sat a small, leather-bound book. She opened it. It was a diary, and on the first page, in a handwriting that made her blood turn to ice, were the words: The soul is the only thing worth stealing.