Self-mutilation Book Novels & Stories

She decided to document her journey and insights in a book—a heartfelt memoir that would serve as a guide for future generations. With great care, Luna poured her wisdom onto the pages, sharing her personal struggles, triumphs, and the profound lessons she had learned. She weaved together stories of her own experiences, anecdotes from the people she had met along the way, and the transformative power of authenticity. The book, titled "Embracing True Colors: A Journey of Authenticity," was published and received with great enthusiasm. Its impact spread far and wide, touching the lives of individuals who sought guidance and inspiration on their own paths to self-discovery.

Announcement!! I've received several comments about what transpired in Chapter 2 (Ignoring Hoes) Some are saying I took it too far, others are saying that's unrealistic, while few others said I should delete and rewrite it as it seems harsh. What I have to say is, I'm not deleting or removing that part, because Firstly: It's my story. Secondly: I've edited in, and that's as far as I can go with it. Lastly and importantly: It is the only original part of my book. Meaning, it happened to me back in my high school days, sadly, I couldn't stand up for myself, which is why I wrote that and made Joanna speak up and put the teacher in her place.

The fact that we had no idea what we were looking for made things harder than they already were. In his room, I found endless books about self-care, self-love, emotional health, and healing. This is the strangest thing I found about Hickman since I’d taken an interest in his life. How can a man who owns an overflowed set of inspirational books hurt a kid like Bobby? This just doesn’t make sense.

"This book is 'on going' and in the first stage of *EDITING*" "This book contains, strong language, abuse, cussing, violence and nasty things (maybe) read at your own risk".- Author. This book is written to inspire those who are having a hard time giving themselves the worth and love they deserve. 📝 Dear Bully, That girl you called fat; she's starving herself to death. That girl you called dumb; she's suffering from dyslexia.

Izzy was just quiet as she listened to me as I spoke while giving her the books to pile in the boxes. "We're rich, Izzy, but no money could help me escape Rian or my mind. We tied therapy a few times before Rian, but they never worked. They only made me wore, because I feel like I can't breathe on my own," I looked at the book in my hand and it was one of my favorite books, The samurai game by Christine Feehan. "These books," I whispered as a tear fell from my eyes, "they need to go. I need to face my reality, and these books are preventing me from doing it," Izzy stood up and hugged me.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Content warning: This book contains strong language and sensitive content such as sexual harassment, self-harm, and intimate scenes that may not be suitable for young readers. Read at your own risk. La Cuevas #1: When The Star Falls ✓ La Cuevas #2: Hazards of Love

The script was archaic, looping and sharp like claws etched into paper. The first page of the book bore only a single line: TO HOLD TWO SELVES IS TO KNOW NO SELF AT ALL. My breath seized. I turned the page. The book was about duplication. I mean true, living duplicates. Not golems or constructs, but exact replicas of a person, down to their soul-echo. The text spoke of ancient rites, of mirrors that drank moonlight, of blood mixed with starlight and silence. It claimed that such power had been sealed away a long time ago, tagged too dangerous, too destabilizing to the fabric of identity.

I begin scanning titles desperately, hoping to find something useful. Maybe something like: How To Stop Embarrassing Yourself By Flirting With Straight Men. Or perhaps: Self-Control: Please, For The Love Of God. Nothing. Not even close. I feel deeply offended. There is absolutely a market for those books. I cannot possibly be the only person suffering from this very specific life crisis. Rachel drifts down the aisle behind me, pretending to browse

The children noticed subtle changes: a softer tone here, a brief moment of laughter there, the beginnings of apologies and acknowledgment of harm. Mathapelo began writing in her journal, a practice she had abandoned long ago. Each entry became a mirror, reflecting her fears, regrets, and small victories. She documented her interactions with her children, her attempts at patience, and her moments of relapse. Slowly, the writing became a lifeline, a bridge between self-destruction and conscious effort.

Her expression dulls a bit, and the twinkle in her eyes becomes unreadble. I feel a bit unnerved by her statement, unsure of what to think or feel. "I think it's safe to say none of the sex in that book is 'just sex.'" "I guess that's true." We sit in a somewhat uncomfortable silence and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. "What were you reading?" She asks. "Some random Sci-Fi novel I found at a garage sale." I hand her the book. The dust jacket wasn't on the book when I picked it up. So it appears plain and uninviting. Just a deep green fabric stretched tight over the boards that bind the book together.