Shame A Novel Novels & Stories

He wrote that he had known this almost immediately after saying it and had not known what to do with the knowing. The third paragraph said that he had read her publication and that the fourth chapter — the one she had written — had described an experience of being told you were empty that he recognized as the experience of being told you were a stain, and that reading it had made him feel something he had not expected to feel at eighty-one, which was shame. Not regret. Shame. He knew the difference.

If one could die from shame, the forensic doctors would already be performing an autopsy on me. Because, the shame I felt, was about to kill my nervous system. Because even my nerve endings, had gone into shock at the words Mrs. Every had said. "Oh, for God's sake, I don't think I can get out of this place" I mutter covering my face with my hands.

Chapter 118 Jewel Head space. Everything is hustling, a blur of motion and noise that grates against my raw nerves. I can only feel the movements of other people across the room, their energy a suffocating weight. I just hurt myself. Again. The shame is a familiar ache, a dull throb beneath the surface of the swirling chaos in my mind. I'm sorry. A silent apology whispered into the void, knowing it's not enough. Knowing I'll probably do it again.

My voice becomes shaky, and I find myself squeezing Chris’ hands tighter. ‘You’re doing great. I’m right here, honey,” he gently soothes in my mind. All around I can hear the enraged whispers and shocked and disgusted faces. I want to run and hide from them, and I can feel the shame creeping up, but I force myself to remember Chris’ words. I have nothing to be ashamed of. I did nothing wrong, what happened was not my fault. It doesn’t speak to who I am as a person but what kind of a monster he was. I won’t live my life in fear and shame anymore.

The book club incident was simply just playing over and over in my head because I really felt absolutely ashamed for letting Marcus to take me again, for succumbing to his antics and for even coming hard, moaning, crying, while shooting cum from a dick that was untouched, spurting cum heavily like that in a public place. What kind of person was I becoming? And what kind of person was he turning me into with the things he did to me? I could not stop thinking about the way his hands ran over my skin, or stop hearing that his thick sexy voice in my ears, and neither could I forget the way he filled me up with his cock wherever he tried. All of these thoughts swirling inside of mind instantly ma

“Did you install any before that? Before Merritt?” She shook her head hard. “No. I swear. He showed me one he’d ‘found’—said others already existed, that they were sloppy, that mine would be tidier.” Her face crumpled. “He made me feel… chosen. It makes me sick to say it.” Shame is a room you think you can exit by naming it, but sometimes naming it is the door locking. I wanted to break something for her. Or put a chair under the handle to keep the door open until she remembered which way was out.

"That bitch! How dare she humiliate you like that!" I opened my phone and went to our pack's internal social media platform. Pinned to the top of the feed was a photo of me, wearing the humiliating brand. The photo was crystal clear, capturing my shame from every angle. The caption was even more vicious: "Look at our 'noble princess'! Turns out pure-blood Alphas aren't so special after all. Can't even take a little joke. What a delicate little doll. But what can you expect from a pretty face with no sense of humor?"

She tears her eyes away, her lips trembling, her throat dry. God, this is so messed up, she thinks, a scream echoing inside her skull. How is she going to break away from this? What will her family say when they find out? What will Gregory’s mother think, when the truth inevitably claws its way into the open? The shame burns through her veins, twisting with the desire she cannot extinguish. This is absurd. This is wrong. Society itself would brand her a traitor, a woman without morals, without decency. What kind of person has she become?

But Damien was gone, far away, and she was left in the wreckage. In her despair, her mind wandered to darker places. Shame clung to her skin, thick and suffocating. She wanted to feel clean again, and wanted to wash away the stain of accusation. Slowly, almost without thought, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into a hot shower, letting the water scald her skin until it turned red. She pressed her forehead against the cold tile, whispering, “Please believe me. Someone. Anyone.” Her tears mixed with the water, her sobs drowned by the rush from the showerhead. And still, the shame stayed.

Instead they just sat in my chest now, hollow, because the truth was I didn’t understand what I was anymore. I wasn’t Ella, not here. I wasn’t fully Chloe either, not in any way that felt real. I was some third thing, invented out of necessity, wearing a stranger’s name over a body that was quietly, secretly, becoming someone else’s future. By the time I reached my room, the anger had burned itself down to something colder and far more useful. Shame, I’d learned a long time ago, could be survived. It could even be used, if a person was patient enough and cruel enough to herself in the right ways.