Freedom Writers Diary Book Novels & Stories

I would be far away from here tomorrow, far away from all the pain, far away from all the sad memories here and most importantly far away from Adrien, I would finally put the past behind me. I got ready pretty early the next morning, excitement brewing in my chest. I put on a white floral dress with simple black sandals and my hair in a neat bun. As soon as my Uber driver informed me of his arrival, I was on my way to the airport, the feeling of freedom better than I ever expected. As I sat by the window in the airplane,I went over all the years I wasted trying to make Adrien love me, all the years spent in America, all for nothing. Not once did Adrien treat me nicely, not even for one day,

She brought out the book and gave it to him. “Come with me now,” Grim said when he saw that it was his diary she was reading. In the diary, he had written things he would never say outside. Where he had written some secrets. And she had read most of it. She followed him quietly, fearing that the smallest calm could upset whatever control he had left. She had read about how he had killed people undeserving of death but now she was deserving. The book had contained secrets about his weakness and Grim didn't look like was going to allow her to walk away with such secrets. She had lived a troubled life but this was such a lame way to go.

He had been both storm and lesson, bruise and awakening. And somewhere deep down, she knew he’d understood the message she hadn’t needed to send. She sat up, pulling her journal closer. Her handwriting had changed lately softer, looser, as though her words had finally exhaled. “Freedom doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it hums.” She smiled at that, closing the notebook gently. Her phone buzzed a text from her editor: “Your book’s doing beautifully. People are calling it the quiet revolution of healing. You should be proud.”

I sit at the cliff’s edge, legs dangling, dawn cracking open the horizon in pale gold and steel blue. I reach for my diary before I can think better of it. The leather is worn soft by use. By secrets. This book has heard things no one else ever will. Only me. I write because if I don’t, it will live in my body instead—and I can’t afford that. The pen moves automatically. Yesterday spills out—finding him on the grounds, the way the air shifted, the way the world seemed to know before I did. Nina had known. Of course she had. She always does.

Micha gaped. "How?!" The book continued. A certain person brought a book to the palace to clear his name. I'm sure you already know who it was. Micha gasped. "Beth?!" "Yes," the book answered. "She dared to approach the palace with evidence, despite Roosevelt's reputation." Micha frowned. "What book are you talking about?" Golden letters formed: "Princess Eloise's diary." My eyes widened. Micha nearly jumped. "Her diary?! Then everything will finally be known!"

The first image nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. A woman. Beautiful. Fierce. Eyes sharp with intelligence and sorrow. Blue fire dancing effortlessly in her hands like it belongs there. And in her arms. A baby. My breath goes shallow. That is not a legend. That is a memory. I turn the page. And freeze. This is not a history book. It’s a diary. Handwritten entries. Personal notes. Dates. Emotions bleeding through ink. Why would a woman’s diary be locked away in the forbidden section of the academy library.

This dіаrу wіll tell thе story of whаt hарреnеd tо mе, Sаrаh Shаw. *Dау Twо: Even in thе ріtѕ оf thіѕ hellhole, there is hope. That’s whаt I hаvе tо hold оn tо. Thіѕ is whу I’m wrіtіng my story hеrе. Thе losers dо not uѕuаllу wrіtе hіѕtоrу; neither dо vісtіmѕ lіkе mе.

Freedom... There is nothing as important as a man's freedom to do as he likes, eat what he wants, think what he wants, and be wherever he wants to be whenever he wants to be there. Take away a man's freedom and he is at that moment less than human. I had heard plenty of stories from incarcerated men, and I tell you that no words can describe the horrors that men and women face and commit within the walls of prisons.

He doesn't know if his father will return. He was two hundred in age, his father was almost thousands. He can still recall his father's order, "If you want to leave, do it. Don't worry about me. Go in a year where peace is at hand..." His diary dated February 1915. He was doubting on leaving his father. It took him hours before he decided on entering the room with the diary clipped in his armpit, the pocket watch on his left hand, and the gold key inside his pocket and chanted the same.

I don't care about their judgements and what anyone thinks the world could perish for all I care. I slipped my flip flops and stretched my tired limbs. I had the best sleep in months. Who wouldn't? My plans are close to actualization. I walked to my drawer and picked my sacred diary, diary of sins and ran my fingers on the surface before spreading the first page and his name popped up. "ADRIAN CUBAN." In bold letters and a hot tear rolled down my left cheek.