Post Apocalyptic Graphic Novels Novels & Stories

As I head to see my boyfriend, Howard Schultz, who is working late, I get into a car accident. I call him dozens of times for help, but he doesn't answer a single one. Staring at his brightly lit office building not far away, I sink into despair. When I wake up in the hospital, I see a post from his subordinate. It's a picture showing the reflection of the two of them in the glass door, standing far closer than they should, with the caption, "What do I do when my boss is scolding me late at night?" Unwilling to believe it, I call him again. This time, he finally answers. My voice trembles. "Howard, I got into a car accident…" "Celine, I'm still working. I'll send my assistant to take care of it, okay? Be good. I'll see you after I come back from my business trip." I try to say more, but his angry shout suddenly cuts through the line. "Crystal Jennings! You're only allowed to bring one suitcase for this trip. Why do you have three? Do you think we're going on vacation?" Crystal Jennings—the new intern Howard just hired. I stare at the disconnected call, tears drying on my cheeks. I then call my parents instead. "I agree to the engagement you arranged."

In order to prioritize saving a girl who needs to undergo a kidney transplant, I've gone to the bank to deal with the transaction. Judith Smith, the lady working at the counter keeps making my life difficult, though. "How can you prove that your funds are legal? Also, how can you prove that you are an employee of this charity organization?" "These are the documents that I've prepared according to the regulations that can prove the funds' sources. Here's my work ID and my driver's license. My photos are shown here." Judith merely glances at the identification documents before raising an eyebrow. "You don't look anything like the photos at all!" Since I'm in a hurry, I rush back to the organization and quickly get all the paperwork regarding my identity settled. I initially thought that I could finally transfer the check to the hospital. But that's when Judith speaks up lightly. "I refuse to go through this procedure." Furious, I decide to lodge a complaint about Judith. But she has the audacity to post about me on the Internet. There, she paints me as a rude customer who not only deliberately makes things difficult for her, but I apparently also refuse to comply with the standard procedures. Later on, the sick girl's prioritization gets canceled due to how crazy the public backlash has become. Just when I'm no longer in a hurry to transfer the payment to the hospital, Judith is the one panicking about the situation instead.

I come across a popular post on the forums. "Help! Someone has stolen my two million dollars of gold from my safe! The thief didn't even leave behind any marks of wrenching the safe door open!" In the photo, a hand with a wedding ring can be seen pointing at an empty safe. The safe's model and patterns match the safe that I've seen in my best friend, Joan Hart's, house before. The comment section is already filled with comments. "Girlie, I'm sorry, but I have to say this. Your husband's most likely the culprit." "Agreed. There's no way ordinary thieves can swipe your gold away without leaving anything behind." "You should check your husband's recent financial situation first." The original poster responds to the comments that doubt her husband firmly, "There's no way it's my husband! We're in a tightly-knit relationship!" Someone is quick to ask, "What about your friends and relatives? Who else has visited your house before?" This time, the original poster's response appears even faster. "Last week, my best friend spent a night at my house…" Just as I'm about to share the thread with Joan and tell her that her safe might be compromised because of these safety issues, I receive a phone call from her. "Andrea, I got bad news for you! Someone stole my safe at home!"

My parents have invited all of their relatives and friends to our villa for a nice gathering to celebrate their golden anniversary. Isabel Atkinson, my wife who works as a model, suddenly calls me on the phone and claims that she needs to attend an urgent meeting hosted by her client. Before it's my turn to give a speech on the stage, my assistant suddenly hands my phone over to me. "Mr. Marsh, you might want to take a look at this…" The screen shows a social media post made by Miles Horton, an intern designer at our company. "At this moment, she belongs to me and me only." In the photo, Isabel can be seen sitting in a dimly-lit room. A few plain-looking dishes decorate the table. Her hair is slightly messy, but she continues to smile at the elder next to her. A cold, mocking smile appears on my face. It turns out that her so-called emergency meeting is a family gathering with Miles. I leave a comment in the comments section. "The food looks pretty tasty. I'd like to visit you next time." Chaos erupts on the social media feed instantly. Isabel calls me immediately. "Why are you being such a phony? You'd better delete the comment right now!" I just chuckle coldly as I end the call. Then, I send her a copy of the divorce papers I've drafted. Since Miles' matters are clearly more important to her, then she can forget about coming home forever.

My father suffered a heart attack and collapsed. Emergency treatment required the installation of a cardiac stent. I asked my husband to approve an expense of 10 thousand dollars for the surgery. Cameron Lister, the CEO, refused coldly, "The company and family accounts have been frozen recently because of a major project. Your father has medical insurance, so just use a cost-effective domestic stent for now." He was the sole administrator of all the bank cards in my family. His reply made me sorrowfully realize something. Even though I was a genius architectural designer with an annual income of 600 thousand dollars, I was still not worthy of choosing a better life-saving device for my own father. It was a Twitter post forwarded by a colleague, freshly and gleefully posted by the company intern Wendy. [Cameron is so nice. I just said I liked painting, and he gave me a million dollars to organize an art exhibition. I love him so much!] I looked at my father lying on an extra bed in the hospital corridor, groaning in pain, and then looked at the photo of them sweetly embracing each other. I finally understood that Cameron had perhaps never truly loved me. He had only treated me as a stepping stone for his soaring career, and as a tool for him to exploit without limits. 'If this is what you want, Cameron, then don't blame me for being ruthless,' I said inwardly.

The day I decided to donate my body to science, my family gathered around my adopted sister, Hailey, celebrating her acceptance into a cutting-edge experimental treatment program. The one with brain cancer was supposed to be me. But Hailey used my husband Zane's position at the hospital to swap her healthy medical records with my terminal diagnosis, stealing the one chance I had to survive. And the worst part? Everyone cheered her on. The pain became too much. I fought to stay present, only to overhear the nurses whispering, "It's a good thing Dr. Zane secured that spot for Hailey. They said she only had three days left." So, in the last 72 hours of my life, I quietly let go of everything. When I gave Hailey the original manuscripts of my novels I had poured my heart and soul into, my father and brother gave me a satisfied smile. When Zane decided to grant Hailey her dying wish by marrying her, he handed me the divorce papers. I signed without a moment's hesitation. He sighed and praised me for finally being "so reasonable." And when I was the one who coaxed our daughter, Olivia, into calling Hailey "Mommy," Olivia gushed that her new mom was the best. "Don't worry," Zane soothed. "We're just keeping it safe for now. Once she's gone, it'll all come back to you." I gave Hailey everything I had, just like they wanted. So why, when they find out this was all Hailey's vicious lie, do they come crying, saying I'm the one they wanted all along?

I’ve always felt like Travis Chancer was forced to marry me. Every time we were intimate at night, he’d rather use his hand to get me off than actually have sex with me. I got more and more disappointed and decided to divorce him. But the night before I printed the papers, I heard him on the balcony talking to his buddies. “Bro, I’m not trying to be nosy, but you’re obviously dying for it. Why won’t you touch her? The perfect woman is right there. It must feel amazing.” “Women can’t stand being ignored. If you keep bottling it up, she’ll eventually run off with another man, and you’ll regret it.” He took a quiet sip of whiskey. “But her skin is so delicate, and her waist is so slim… she’s so sensitive. What if I lose control and scare her? “She’s my woman. I have to be careful. If she wants to find comfort elsewhere, she can. As long as she’s still willing to come home, I’ll keep spoiling her.” They snorted. “Don’t act like a saint, man. If you’ve got the guts, stop secretly posting on Reddit.” Late that night, I quietly opened Travis’s browser history. A full hundred entries. The pinned post read: “I finally married the girl I’ve loved for years, but I have a very high sex drive. How can I make her enjoy it without leaving psychological scars?”…

On Christmas Eve, my parents and my fiancé, Ivano Dominici, finally agree to accompany me to Iberion to see the aurora. But when I arrive there, they never show up no matter how long I wait. I send messages to ask. They reply helplessly that something urgent has come up at the last minute and tell me to go to the observation point and wait. I stand alone on the icy field, turning back every few minutes to look at the road behind me. When my hands grow numb from the cold, I scroll my social media feed and see a recent post from my younger sister, Giada Soave. Holding gifts in her arms, she sits beneath a luxurious crystal Christmas tree with my parents embracing her from both sides. Ivano stands behind her with his hand resting lightly at her waist and his eyes full of tenderness. The caption reads, "Merry Christmas, I'm grateful to spend the holiday with those who love me most!" The comments section buzzes with blessings, praise, and envious messages. I stare at the screen for a long time without moving. This is not the first time they break their promise to me because of Giada. But this time, I do not argue or make a scene. I simply type and send one line calmly in the comments, "I wish your family of four a Merry Christmas." I finally let go of my obsession and stop waiting for people who will never come to me. But when I quietly step away, the ones who cannot let go turn out to be them.

During the holiday break, my wife, Jayda Glover—the hospital's star surgeon and Chief of Cardiac Surgery—suddenly "had to work overtime." Our third-anniversary hot springs trip? Canceled. That night, I was scrolling social media when a post from her intern, Dillon Tripp, popped up. My ice-queen wife always said her "golden hands" were only for patients. Apparently, they cook now too. She was in a cartoon apron, calmly chopping vegetables. The caption read: [Thank you, Dr. Glover, for personally cooking to comfort me after I was bullied by a patient's family!] I tapped like and left a comment. [White coat to apron. Very domestic.] Ten minutes later, the whole hospital knew Cardiac Surgery's untouchable beauty had broken her rule—just to cook for a younger guy. Jayda called. Dishes clattered in the background. "You really had to embarrass me in public? He got hot water thrown on him by a patient's family today. I was just doing my duty as his mentor! "A pampered professor's kid like you wouldn't know the first thing about how hard broke med students have it. "Apologize to Dillon right now. Otherwise, no matter how much you beg later, I'm not going on that trip with you!" Beg her? I looked at the divorce papers that had just arrived on the coffee table and let out a quiet laugh. I wasn't begging anymore. From this moment on, we were strangers.

When Eloise Garpin, my daughter, comes back from kindergarten, she tells me that her teacher, Karen Linsell, has given her class a weird assignment. Apparently, everyone is to record their mothers' menstrual week. But what makes things weirder is that whenever I'm on my period, John Garpin, my husband who's often busy with work, keeps offering to pick Eloise up from kindergarten. One day, I come across a post on a social media app. "What should I do? I've fallen in love with my student's rich father! Oh dear, I really like him so much! You have no idea that his taut and slim waist looks so seductive! Every time I see him, I can't help but moan!" Someone begins admonishing her out of fury the moment they see the post. "What the hell? Are you itching to become a mistress? You really are shameless! Goodness, you're so disgusting! I can't believe you call yourself a teacher!" Unexpectedly, the original poster doesn't care about the comment at all. She even posts a photo featuring the aftermath of her carnal fun with the man. "So what if I am? Anyway, we regularly sleep together every month whenever he picks his daughter up during his wife's period. This is so thrilling!" I'm stunned when I see the million-dollar custom watch strapped to the man's wrist in the photo. And today… happens to be the first day of my period.