Self-mutilation Book Novels & Stories

THE NEXT PART OF THIS BOOK IS GRAPHIC AND TRIGGERING. It includes: -r*pe -s*icidal thoughts -self h*rm -s*icide attempts -sexual ab*se Please don't read on if any of these bother you, it will get intense and upsetting. I'm warning you now so anyone who may be triggered by these themes doesn't walk into it without knowing beforehand. Marcus pov Friday 1st November 2019 *********************************

My hands trembled slightly, though I told myself it was from anger. My throat tightened as I flipped through the pages while gritting my teeth. “Damn it!” I snarled, slamming the book shut. I didn’t even realize I had been growling until I heard the low rumble in my chest that always came when my control began to fray. In one single motion, I grabbed the book again and began tracing the old binding threads with my claw. Still seething, I held the book with both hands and began to shred it like that was going to abate my anger.

He pushed the head of his cock inside me, just enough to make me squirm. "Yeah, I’m fine," I managed, voice shaky but clear enough. "Just… talking to myself. Bad dream. Go back to sleep, Em." Ethan grinned darkly and thrust in deeper, stretching me full in one smooth stroke. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, fighting the moan that wanted to rip out. "Okay… you sure?" Emma sounded hesitant. "Want me to come in and talk?" "No!" I said quickly, too quickly. Ethan started moving, slow deep rolls of his hips that hit every sensitive spot. "I’m good. Really. Just tired. See you in the morning."

I tried many times to walk through the gates, but there was always something there keeping me from coming out, and each time I forced my way out, her prediction came true: I would fall into a deep slumber until the night arrived. I slowly lost my mind; I drowned myself in alcohol and lost my purpose in life. Writing this book for future generations to see is the only thing keeping me sane now; nothing makes sense anymore. I hope someone finds it and cares enough to want to know what I'm about to write on this next page." “And that's it,” I said, flipping the pages of the book to see if there were more writings, but it was just blank pages until the end. “That's such a mysterious story,” Clar

“He’ll try calling the companies which sent the books to find out who purchased them, only to find out that his own name is on the buyer accounts.” “He’ll be baffled and angry, and of course he’ll throw it all away – but the outrage will pass after a week or so. That’s when the next set of packages will arrive.” I continue, becoming more animated by the minute. “More self-help books about overcoming the things he would consider most humiliating, in conjunction with supplies to help him improve. Adult bedwetting literature with boxes of diapers; books on how to pleasure your unsatisfied lover along with penis enhancement pills; feminization porn along with frilly dresses and sex toys.

Damn, Freckles. The first book I pulled out was called “Images You Should Not Masturbate To”. I snorted, flipping through a couple of pages and shaking my head. That sarcastic streak of hers ran deep. I grabbed another, the title catching my eye: “How to Traumatize Your Children: 7 Proven Methods to Help You Screw Up Your Kids Deliberately and with Skill.” I let out a short laugh, one that came from somewhere I’d almost forgotten existed. Then there were the others—Fancy Coffins to Make Yourself, Do-It-Yourself Coffins for Pets and People, and, for good measure, How to Raise Your IQ by Eating Gifted Children. I shook my head, glancing back at her still sleeping form.

Failure is the entire sector losing itself in a cheap imitation of our pain. We have to stop it. We have to break the only thing holding us together. The solution is a self-mutilation of the soul. To deliberately desynchronize our heartbeats. To take the rhythm that is the foundation of our merged existence and smash it. We stand in the center of our room, the air thick with the psychic buzz of our unwanted congregation. Their synchronized yearning is a pressure on my skin, a hum in my teeth. “Now,” Arthur grates out, his face pale. He feels it too. The violation. The sheer, disgusting publicness of it all.

I kept on concentrating on the screen to check the mistakes of the drafts, the misspellings, and the grammatical errors, mostly. “ I felt that.” He said making me gazed at him seriously. His eyes are still on the book cover. He took a deep breath, then put the book on the floor, and hugged his knees. “You don't have cancer, right?” I asked in assurance. He shake his head no and it was a relief. “ It's just that...your head is full of words that are slowly killing you, and the fact that you're saying words to yourself that you don't want to hear others utter it to you- it's depressing to think you should be the one who will save yourself, but ... sometimes, it's you who drowned your own self.

He had his way with me and left me there, dirty, bloody, and unable to move. I suddenly felt dirty at the thought of him touching me. I rush to the bathroom and run a bath. I get into the bathtub and fold my long black hair into a bun. I wash every corner of my body repeatedly, tears running down my cheeks. Ever since then, I have dated no one or wanted anything to do with boys. I hate that guy for taking what didn’t belong to him. I hate him for making me feel worthless. Writing that book felt like I was having therapy sessions. Sometimes I think I’m living two different lives and I don’t know which one defines me.

I thought of burning the book for it I should burn it, I wouldn't be troubling myself any longer and the black Cults won't be able to come to me anymore. I also thought that there would be penalty in doing that, for the book does not belong to me, it from my school library. Instead of burning it, I would rather return the book. But returning the book will not be good for me as I will continue to think about reading the book in as much I know the book still lives. I think and connected to the book. The connection makes me not to be able to do without reading it. Wait a minute, am I connected to the book or the what is inside the book. What is wrong with me? I shouted out speaking to myself.