Sociopath: A Memoir Reviews Novels & Stories

I wonder if my Mom can still accept me if she already knows what I have done and what I am going to do. If she will still call me her daughter knowing I am a killer, a murderer. I wonder if she can understand my reason for this. Because right now, I can not understand myself. I think I don’t know myself anymore. •••

I said because an A-list therapist like her won't be out at a random party, consuming bottles of alcohol. "Yeah. I'm not supposed to tell anyone this but I found myself trusting you, Sofia. I traveled down from California to offer my service to a man who turns out he is a psychotic dealer. A loan shark enforcer in the city who beats people to death when they look him in the eye. He heard I was the best in California. I heard his story and my healthy mind is traumatized. Sometimes we need to know the reason why people do bad things but it still doesn't erase the fact that they are dangerous. I had sex with him, willingly, God! He was irresistible " She wasn't looking me in the eye as she gulp

“You down-right pissed me off with that move, and if you ever disobey me like that again, you will wish I had disavowed you when I’m done. I may be an old, fat bastard now, but I still remember how to make a woman . . . suffer, and would love nothing more than to revisit some of my old memories from before I ‘retired’ and founded this little organization. Are we clear?” It takes a lot to unnerve me—being a sociopathic bitch has its perks, after all. But Zeke somehow always manages to creep under my skin. I do not doubt for a second his sincerity at this moment. “Yes, we’re clear,” I manage to croak out, furious at myself for how weak I know my voice sounds, knowing I am just feeding into his

But not before she left a note behind, one he found weeks later in his locker: “You scare me. Please get help.” He burned it. Then Seraphina. Broken little bird with tear-glass eyes. She came to him already splintered, already desperate to be wanted. He wrapped his hands around her neck when she talked too much, left bite marks when she asked too many questions. And she called it love. She called it passion. When he left her, she shattered completely. Tried to die in a school bathroom stall. Slit wrists. A pool of blood and a confession note addressed to him.

Outside, everything was ice and frost Dorian’s version of safe. He had wanted her out of the city while the heat cooled. A dozen news cycles had passed since the trial, since the last arrest. But silence, she learned, was never safe; it was an echo chamber. She walked back to the desk. Highlighted the whole paragraph. Cut it. Typed again. “This book is not a confession. It is a record. Of power, of violence, of velvet and blood. And of the people who lived inside it some survived. Some did not.”

“Neil asked warily, trying to look into her eyes even when she pointedly turned away and looked at everything except him. He behaved not just like a jealous person, not like an older brother suffering from a sister complex. The notes in her voice stood out too obviously, literally declaring her unwillingness to put up with any other man in her environment, besides himself. — He is one of the co-founders of this sanatorium. A few days ago he stopped by and invited me personally. - Even so. You must be on very good terms. Leah smiled. Sometimes it happens that you look at a person. Completely alien and barely familiar to you. Like another living decoration, creating the appearance of life and

"It is. And they all remember you, even when you can't remember them." "Is that sad or beautiful?" "Both. It's both." Hope pulled out a notebook. "I've been recording everything, Mom. Every lucid conversation, every memory fragment, every moment of clarity. I'm documenting your decline so future families will understand what Alzheimer's looks like from the inside." "That sounds awful." "It's honest. You always valued honesty over comfort." "Did I?" "You did. You insisted the memoir and documentary show everything – the abuse, the failures, the memory loss. All of it."

“Don’t you dare pretend you understand. You're just like your mother! “ I said and stood up from my chair. But he pulled me by my wrist. “ Don't you dare say that,Taylor. I'm nothing like that witch who took everything away from me. You had no idea what I had to endure! “ Then a forced smile appeared on my lips. “ Now…you know how it feels. How..someone you trust to protect you, love you betrayed your trust and ran away. “ His eyes softened. For a moment I thought I was getting to him. Surprisingly, his gaze faltered and he hoarsed. “ We can talk about our redemption on the way. Let's leave.” I felt a chill run down my spine at his words, but I refused to let him see how much it shook me. He

She stopped only when she felt satisfied, leaving a child to endure pain no child should ever have to understand. And his suffering did not fade with time. Instead, it hardened and numbed him. Growing up, Zandrei learned to survive by shutting parts of himself down. Somewhere along the way, his pain curdled into something darker. He developed an instinctive aversion to women, rooted not in reason but in memory. A raised voice, a sudden touch, even a lingering presence could set his nerves on fire. Rage came fast and unfiltered, like a defense mechanism forged in a house where love had always come with bruises.

Marcus stated. I rolled my eyes at the ridiculous claim. "Some compassion? I doubt that. Your friend is a sociopath."I paused to think. "Actually he is a psychopath and there is no way sociopaths have compassion. He is so annoying and if I had a choice I would not have to spend my night there. He is the worst human being to exist. I cannot wait for this night to end and never see his rude ass ever again."I complained about my anger fuelling when I recalled how annoying Alex was.