Pretty Face Is Going To Hell Novels & Stories

Who did I know who could do a passable impression of me? If I was being hyper-critical (I know, so unlike me), I’d say Keezy’s version overdid the slouching a bit, and the face was a bit too grey and lifeless. I might not smile a lot, or express emotions on the regular, but that left me with silky smooth skin. All that stretching from smiling and grinning is a breeding ground for lines and wrinkles. That’s why beautiful women become so humourless as they grow older. That, and the realisation no one will put up with their shit once their looks are gone.

I know your house and I can track you down any day if you attempt to play smart with me. "I gave you a reasonable amount to flush out whatever that you said is growing in your belly, don't you dare think to pin me down with it, you've got the wrong person. "I'd search for you and kill you with my hands, the day you think of creating any scandal for me. Like literally choke you to death. "I will make earth unbearable for you and hell will also reject you. Maybe I am wrong and you are a nice person, but probably not. Watch your steps!!!"

"A low-class, cheap, and filthy cunt you are, Keatton! Look at yourself! You're a disgust in this world! A piece of trash! Nonsense! Irrelevant! Worthless!" I looked heavenward. Tears are covering my face. I thought that it was it but I was wrong. So wrong. "Ngaaaaaaaaahhhh!! Stooooop! Ouuuch! Heeelp! Aaaaaahhh! Oh, God! Noo! Please, Dr. Karsyn! Stoop!"

carved into it. On my first day in prison, the other inmates heard that "I" had killed a child in a hit-and-run and fled the scene. So, they pinned me to the ground and branded that mark of shame onto my face. From that day on, beatings became part of my daily life. Riley froze for a moment. A trace of guilt flashed in her eyes before it disappeared. Just then, Leo Ferdinand leaned out from the passenger seat. His face had been altered, and he no longer looked quite like he used to. Then again, with Riley being one of the most renowned plastic surgeons in the country, changing someone's face was effortless for her.

She could hear the sound of a laughter coming from behind her and before the light from the match could disappear, she found a blue eyed angel looking down at her, smiling a smile that only a devil would have shown. "You seem to be quite entertaining," whispered the man. "But how long do you think you will remain entertaining? If you aren't careful... you're going to be the next head hanging there." The only thing Jane could see before as her viewpoint grew smaller was the lips that had languidly spoken. The smile on that man's lips tell her that what she was going to face from now on was Hell. She had entered Hell.

Hold on. Her lips curve. Small. Ghostlike. She knows. God, she looks like hell. Swollen cheek. Split lip. Dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Body exhausted. Pained. And still — still — she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. The devil inside me smiles — that bastard is dead. They’re all fucking dead. Deep breath in. Slow out. “Hey, angel.” My voice comes out smooth. Arrogant. Like this is a cocktail party instead of a slaughterhouse.

You psychopath rot in hell” I yelled, the tears almost blinding my vision. The only thing I heard next was their laughter’s both dry and icly. The only person who’s going to rot in hell is you because that’s exactly where we plan on sending you to. If I were you , I would say my last prayer and prepare myself to die with that sick bastard that is in goddamn stomach. Baby ? I asked but my voice trails off as she rugged the injection into my skin and I literally passed out.

Even he hadn't expected it to be this bad, though he recovered quickly, smoothing his expression back into place. "This is what survival smells like, folks. You all need to get used to it." The heavy iron door ground open. Sunlight from outside poured down the corridor, cutting into the darkness. Even through the masks, a few of the guests gagged. "Good lord..." Gerald wrinkled his nose, his voice muffled behind the mask. "That's worse than rotten meat..." Mom's face went cold. "How many days has that child gone without a bath? How did she let herself get like this?"

“And they will call it justice. Or providence.” Her lips trembled. “They will not bury you properly,” Malachor continued. “They will not speak your name with grief. They will speak it with relief.” Images rose without her consent: the pit beyond the fields, earth thrown quickly, bodies layered like refuse. No candle. No prayer. No hands smoothing cloth over her face. Elizabeth shut her eyes hard, and a few tears fell from the corners. “I won’t be here to hear them,” she whispered. Malachor’s fingers tightened at her jaw firmly to insist on her attention.

Her perfume still floated in the air, sharp and cold, like something expensive that didn’t want to be touched. He had tried to be good. He’d smiled on the video call, said hello to his father, even waved to the lady and the girl beside him. They’d smiled back, the lady’s smile had been soft and warm, and the little girl, Mira, had laughed when he’d shown her his toy car. For a second, it had felt… nice. Like something that should be real. But then Diana’s face after the call, that smile she wore like it was made of glass, ready to break, he knew it meant trouble.