Novel The Outsider Novels & Stories

The first novel I read was by Louisa May Alcott; Little Woman, and then moved on to other feminist novels such as Handmaid's Tale and Pride and Prejudice—the book I'm holding right now. Well, I shouldn't be going around the library looking for a novel I like because what I'm supposed to be doing is taking care of a crazy bastard named Rhysand del Millero, who's on the phone. But I don't want to do that. I'd rather buy time with the books in front of me until the helicopter he's waiting for comes over to the bullshit he started. Damn, I hate this situation. I hate being stuck with a domineering, powerful man who loves to be heard more than to hear, and hates that I can't do anything.

I knew this was only because they knew what kind of reactions people would have in town if anyone found out how they treat me. I reach under my bed and pick up one of my many old books, just before they told me I wasn’t allowed to leave the house at all. I took the spare money that I had and went to the local bookstore, I got as many books as I could do so when I have time, I sit and read each one. I lay back in bed opening up my book, but before I could move to begin to read, the sound of smashing fills the downstairs section of house. “Evermore!” Patrick’s loud voice screams towards the upstairs, my heart sinking at the thought of what may have happened. My nightmare isn’t over yet.

"Irene! They're our parents! How could you be so cold-blooded now? Even if Mom and Dad were in the wrong, what they did can't possibly be punishable by death, can it? They're your family—" I interrupted him. "You are a family. You all treated me like an outsider and punched and kicked me half to death. Were you thinking of me as a member of your family back then?" Isaac's ragged breathing came through the line, but he said nothing. Finally, he broke down and cried out desperately, "Rene, I was horrible to you back then. I was a terrible bastard! "But Mom and Dad are lying in the hospital now, and Vivian stole all the money and Mom's jewelry in the house and disappeared with them all!

"Fine by me. Neve needed a bigger play area anyway. I've already had someone knock down the walls and convert your room." It wasn't up for discussion. Instead, he was simply informing me. If this had happened back then, I would have been heartbroken. But now, I only replied, "Whatever." After I cut off contact completely, my family never looked for me again. It was as though I was nothing more than a cheap old coat they'd thrown away. I started working like crazy at a fast-food joint in the neighborhood, just to numb myself. In my spare time, I signed up for a blog under a fake name and wrote random musings no one would ever read.

Christmas was the reading of the book. This Christmas, Don's book was a novel—Norwegian, which was not a coincidence, a novel by the same writer whose essays were in the Norway reading programme. The novel was called The Dark Year, and it was about a man who spent a winter alone in a cabin in the far north of Norway, experiencing the full darkness for the first time. Don had been saving it since September, when he had finished the essays. He had placed it on the shelf above his desk, the designated holding place for the Christmas book, and had not opened it once.

It’s men like Conrad. I read his file. Men like him are pathetic. He was collecting a check for caring for Sinclair, but she grew up looking poor, while his kids were dressed in the nicest clothes. You could tell from school yearbook pictures the immediate difference. “Cross,” I began. “Tell me what you know about Sinclair Cross.” “Sinner? That’s why I’m here? What has she done?” He asked in rapid succession. “Sinner?” “That’s her nickname.” “Explain to me how she came to be in your care for years,” I ordered.

I shared the same name as the male lead of the novel—Connor Graham. Curious about the effectiveness of AI, I had written a prompt, asking it to write a novel with a character sharing my name. I didn't live a lavish life. I was just a simple corporate worker, but at the very least, I wasn't transmigrated, crippled, or blinded. I also wasn't locked up until I died of excessive blood loss. I wasn't surrounded by a group of twisted lunatics who were willing to hurt others in the name of love. I took a deep breath, deciding to have a sandwich for lunch that afternoon.

As the kitchen filled with the smell of baking bread and simmering oatmeal , I caught murmurs from the older pack members—a sense of anticipation, electric and uneasy, weaving through their words My hands moved automatically, scrubbing and polishing, but my mind wandered to distant memories: laughter echoing in the corridors, games played by moonlight, the warmth of belonging before it all slipped away. Now, the pack treated me with indifference or thinly veiled disdain, save for the rare kind glance from a few elders. I felt like a ghost in my own life, passing through rooms I’d lived in for years but never truly called home. There was a moment, as I passed a window, when I paused to watch

He knew it was Starkov’s dogs barking for attention. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and pulled the curtains back. He needed to see the world outside this room. Below, the street was alive with the mundane. He watched people drift in and out of the yard. A group of nuns crossed the pavement, their dark robes a sharp contrast to the small children holding their hands. For a fleeting second, Jonathan envied them. Their world was simple but his was a house of chaos.

There was only one thing I remembered, one belief carved into my bones: Kill every “outsider.” That was my purpose. During the day, everyone on campus looked human. But once night fell, we all turned into monsters. My existence was dull and repetitive. Occasionally, a new batch of “outsiders” would arrive, and the monotony would break for a few days. I overheard many of them whispering that they wanted to clear the game and win the prize money. To do that, they had to kill the final boss.