Suicide Notes A Novel Novels & Stories

"What's the meaning of this?" Calvin's voice was slightly hoarse. "She knew she was going to die. She knew Susan was going to kill her! None of us believed her!" Barry took a step back. "Then what's with her giving Susan drugs and saying she'd kill her if Susan stole you?" "I didn't want to doubt Susan either, but..." Calvin's fingers clenched into a fist, trembling slightly. "Thinking about those two notes, something feels off. They look a lot like Charlotte's handwriting, but some of the writing style isn't quite right..."

Yeah, he'd learned to practice patience, but dealing with the police while they questioned Betty had just about driven him to the edge of reason. He opened the car door for her, holding her elbow as she climbed in. Daylight had waned, and the parking garage was dimly lit, the sound of other hospital visitors echoing through the cement structures. Betty listened for other things. Furtive footballs on the pavement. The click of a gun safety being released. The slide of fabric or the soft huff is a breath. Someone had tried to kill Dan just a few weeks ago, and there was no reason to believe that person would be content to let him live. The road went quiet as he stepped around the car. The soun

All of that combined in a mix of fear and pleasure, of dread and anticipation, making my whole body buzz and tremble. I left the shower and returned to the room, where there was all the evidence of the previous night. My sheets were covered in blood and sperm, and some other weird-looking things that I guess came from both of us. I started removing them when a small note fell. I picked it up, my breath hitching in my throat, and my pulse pumping in my ears. I gulped and started reading the pretty cursive writing on it. “You should count yourself lucky, doll. But you are going to run out of it pretty soon, and the next killer that visits you won’t get seduced by those plump lips and thunder t

“Belle… what is this?” “It’s nothing. Just… old things. Memories. Please, Draven, I’m begging you. Don't look inside. It’s not you. It’s not us. It’s who I used to be.” “I need to know what they are using against you,” he said gently, but firmly. He opened the book. He flipped through the pages. Most were about hunger, about cold nights, about working until her feet ached. But then his fingers paused. There were little sticky notes tucked between pages, placed there by whoever sent it, marking specific entries.

The city skyline does the work for me, bleeding neon blues and jagged whites across the desk where my life is laid out in spreadsheets and contracts. I see the notebook. The leather-bound record of every move she made, every mistake I committed, and every desperate plan I had to claw her back into my world. My hand hovers over the cover, but I don’t touch it. I don’t need to. The man who needed that notebook died somewhere between the appetizer and the dessert tonight. I sink into my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. I just sit there. I let the evening breathe. Every second of the dinner loops in my head.the way her eyes softened when I caught her off guard, the cautious, beautifu

“Anyway. The point is that she killed herself. In her original statement to the police, she admitted to being the accomplice of Michael Halest. Your father. But before she died, she left a suicide note. Stating she was terribly guilty for accusing Michael Halest of something he didn’t do. In her suicide note, she made him sound like a saint.” “You must be kidding me!” Ajax couldn’t hold himself back from snarling. “She’s obviously lying.” “Trust me. I can bet my whole life on the fact that the stupid death note is fake. But you see, Ajax, when a dying person makes a statement, it’s a little harder to prove otherwise. And until we prove the note is unreliable, we have to take the possibility

A photo of a handwritten note that was smudged and wet, making the contents indecipherable I froze, staring numbly at the screen. “Authorities recovered the body of Nyla Kingsley Briggs early this morning beneath the Blackridge Cliffs. While the preliminary report suggests suicide, investigators recovered several personal items at the scene, including a pair of red heels, a handgun, a bottle believed to contain poison, and a handwritten note. Officials have declined to comment further pending a full investigation.” I couldn’t breathe for seconds. The room spun, and I sank into the chair to control my drowsiness. No. No, no, no. I can't believe this.

Her dark hair fanned out, sticking to the porcelain; her eyes stared up, empty, accusing. My scream lodged in my throat, a silent thing that choked me as I dropped my bag, keys clattering on the tile. She was gone—suicide, the coroner said later—but she’d left me something. A note, folded tight on the sink, my name scrawled in her shaky hand. I unfolded it, hands trembling, and read her goodbye for the millionth time. It wasn’t just a farewell; it was a confession, a map to this hell I’m in now.

Hungry for revenge to those who did me wrong, to those who sexually abused me, and to those who treated me like a pig. I remember my dream that I killed someone. It is not a dream but I did kill someone and he is Gin; one of those men who abused me. My dream is not a dream but a memory too that I killed someone. Now that I remember why I killed him; I don't feel any regret. I suddenly remembered about the black notebook. I know I just hid it somewhere and I want to see the names that I wrote there and how many were left. I immediately stood up to find the notebook. I put the doll down on my bed, I heard my phone ringing but I ignored it. Finding the black notebook is more important than the

I placed the slightly rumpled paper on an open page and my blood ran cold. The handwriting on the suicide note was different from the one in her diary.