Freedom Writers Diary Book Novels & Stories

Heyy, it is your lovely writer here. I would like it very much if you all checked out my Website on book reviews. Here is a link: WATTPAD NOVEL: PETER’S LITTLE PETER (BOOK REVIEW) – Chronicalist https://thechronicalist.wordpress.com/2020/05/02/peters-little-peter-book-review/ ________________________ LEONARD'S POV "Freedom cannot be bestowed — it must be achieved." Elbert Hubbard (American writer, publisher and artist)

Six Long Years Later Only two more excrutiating weeks and this year from hell will be over. Mentally scarred and physically exhausted I am looking forward to summer break with more relief than excitement. I have never minded the scholastic portion of my day, I still approach learning new subjects as a challenge that I must conquer. The day to day social aspects have worn my already fragile confidence into shreds, similar to the wrapping paper on the biggest box at Christmas. In just over three hundred hours I will have three months of much antisipated freedom from the torment that came packaged in the sturdy form of Dalya.

Like You gave me mine. Dear Diary, Thank you for accompanying me this far. Thank you for being willing to accept all my complaints. And thank you for accompanying the lonely years of my life. (You can read Abigail's story in the book titled "Wedding Agreement")

After that, I worked like I was trying to squeeze two days into one. Luckily, I caught on fast. With endless hours of grinding, I finally got the results I wanted. After the SATs, I told Rachel how I felt. Even now, those three months were still the best of my life. So many of my firsts were with her. She promised we'd go to college in the same city. But right before school started, I found out staying in the country had never been part of her plan. I didn't listen to her explanation. I didn't accept her apology.

He waited for me with two glasses of wine. “You came,” he said with a warm smile. “Good. Sit with me.” I sat on the soft couch. He handed me a glass. “Tell me more about the diary,” he asked. “What else did Sarah write?” I took a small sip. “She wrote about the abuse. About feeling trapped. About the baby she wanted to save.” My voice shook a little. “I feel like I am becoming her.”

In that occasion, she looked pitiable for me. Having sympathy to those people who were destined to fight me, was just a weakness. I didn't want to show my weakness anymore, because it would be an impediment in gaining my freedom. At the same time, I realized that seeking for freedom was never been easy, it needed an enormous sacrifice, bravery and patience.

"No. We should apologize instead." We held each other and broke down in tears. Leonard was still in a critical stage. Meanwhile, the content of his diary was published on the Internet. The diary recorded every moment we had spent together. I sat on the bench outside the ICU, and my phone kept vibrating. "Liv, have you seen the news? Leonard's diary has gone viral on the Internet!" "Oh my God! You guys had such great memories together!" "He loves you so much…" I tapped on my phone. The topic at the top of the trending list read, "high school memories of Leonard Burton."

Dear Diary, I’ve decided to keep a book recording all my days here at High Hill, should make pleasant reading in the future! Well, let’s start with the basics. I’m Gabriel; surname’s irrelevant as I’d rather not link myself to my parents. I’m 15; average height, wavy mousey brown hair, hazel brown eyes, and I’ve just arrived on my first day here. My parents sent me here because apparently public school isn’t good enough for me. But the reason they don’t know is that my parents would rather not have a son like me around them, snobbish twats. I’m just not good enough for them because I’m gay... Oh yes, did I not mention, I’m gay...and single... and full of a house with lots of boys in it. Oh b

The next day, I sat in the pre-booked restaurant. I had been waiting for a long time and was already famished, but he never showed up. I opened my phone wanting to urge Ayden. If he wasn't sincerely coming to celebrate our anniversary, he could have just said so instead of keeping me waiting here. After several unsuccessful attempts to reach him by phone, I picked up my phone again and noticed a message in the workgroup. It was a statement from an anonymous account. "Leticia's been cozying up to Mr. Baldwin, trading on her looks to climb the ladder. Disgusting how some exploit their way to the top."

The kind that destroys and apologizes and destroys again, but is learning—slowly, failing, learning—to want your freedom without dying from it. The burning was for me. Not for you. The need to stop observing, stop documenting, stop making your life into proof of my existence. The need to— He stopped, the page turning, the handwriting becoming messier, more honest. To just be. Without witness. Without code. Without the architecture that became prison.