Story On Myself Novels & Stories

“I can stream you anywhere, everywhere. Unstoppable feeds. Global reach. Just say the word.” The camera light blinked red. I stepped into the frame, fire in my veins, hair dishevelled, eyes red. I wasn’t Skyla anymore. I wasn’t Carl’s experiment or Tanya’s rival. I was Skyla Jefferson. “This is my story,” I said, looking straight into the lens. “And Carl Anderson doesn’t get to tell it to the word. I’d tell it, just the way I want to.

I was surprised to read this story, so different. No one should be detained here, but this story changes and talks about me. In this story that I write, no one has ever told anything about me. I thought this shouldn't have happened, the story I wrote had come true and the story's contents changed a little. The main story changed, and became me.

Selves being made smaller by increments so gradual they'd stopped noticing. "Claire said the story that matters is discovering who you were and deciding what to do with it," I said. "Do you agree?" "I think the story that matters is what comes after that. What you build when you finally know who you are. The foundation. Grace and Daniel. You. Robert. All of it." I looked at him. "If one woman reads it and recognizes herself and leaves. Or stays and asks for help. Or just feels less alone. That's worth going back through it."

All he muttered about was to find Leah and bring her back. The woman waited on the shore every single day, saying that she was waiting for someone who would never return. Under my parents' care, I recovered slowly, and I began to lead a new life that belonged to me. After experiencing two lives, I knew more about how to love and cherish my family, and to love myself properly. I believed that after saying goodbye to the wrong person in time, I would be sure to embrace the right person one day.

I rolled over and grabbed my journal from the floor. I told myself I was going to write about what happened today. About how Lane saw through me. About how it made me feel exposed, vulnerable, disgusting. But that’s not what came out. Instead, I wrote a story. A scene. A fantasy. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until I was already halfway through describing how he stood up from his chair in his office , walked right straight to me, and pinned me to the wall. His mouth found mine like he couldn’t hold back anymore. His hands undressed me with a quiet kind of urgency, as he plunges his dick into my pussy.

"I’m tired of pretending I’m something I’m not. I love writing. I love storytelling. And it’s time I stopped killing the parts of myself just to fit into some mold." "I'm gonna be a writer." My voice broke and a tear rolled down uncontrollably. "And for the first time in my life, I’m choosing me and I'm doing something for me.." The number of viewers has inbed to almost five thousand and the chat was literally exploding. My head spun but I could suddenly breathe easily. Smiling through my tears, I ended the live, thumb stabbing the button like it was a detonator and the world went silent again.

The particular costs on each side and what it meant to let someone else run toward those costs before we could. I said it. Not loudly. Not with the performance of someone making a declaration. Just the true thing, in the plain language I used for true things. "I'm not going to let someone else tell my story." Jaxon looked at me. "I've been doing that my whole life. Letting other people decide the narrative of who I am here. The scholarship kid. The charity case. The distraction." I held his gaze. "I'm done." "What are you saying," he said.

he said. “I do,” I replied. “But not like she wants.” I moved to the desk, opening a blank document. My fingers hovered. “She’s trying to split us by story,” I said. “So I won’t let her own mine.” Adrian watched me really watched me now. “This will expose you.” “I’m done being protected by silence,” I replied. “You don’t owe the world this,” he said. “I owe myself,” I answered. The piece went live an hour later not through a tabloid, not through legal channels. Through my own voice. Controlled. Precise.

“This is the first time.” “Why now?” he asks. “Why today?” I inhale, feeling the script in my mind, but reshaping it into my own voice. “Because silence has allowed a story that is not mine to grow larger than me. Because people have been hearing only one side. Because I am tired of waking up every day to see myself turned into a villain in a story I did not write.” The host nods slowly. “You are referring to your father in law’s statements.” “Yes.”

But under the podium, out of frame, it said something else entirely. It said I've got this. It said look at me instead of them. It said, more than anything, you are not alone up here. I found my voice again somewhere in the space that grip made for me."I think," I said, slower than I meant to, "people are going to see whatever story is easiest to tell. I can't control that. I can only tell you what's actually true, which is that I'm not defined by the worst week of my life, and neither is my marriage.