The Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

Anna eagerly moved into my room after I left. Deep in the closet, she found an old box containing Spot's toys and a yellowed diary. Anna flipped it open curiously, but her expression grew increasingly grim. The diary detailed every stunt she'd pulled back then, from destroying my mother's portrait to faking her allergies to frame Spot, and even destroying the data in my computer. I'd recorded every single thing with meticulous detail. Her face turned ashen. In a panic, she tried to burn the diary. However, she was caught in the act by Dante, who'd returned early from work.

But, The ones above were harder to reach, forcing me to stretch, my fingers roaming blindly across the upper shelves. Suddenly, something solid brushed against my fingertips. Frowning, I pulled it free. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. A black diary falls right at my feet. Frowning, I picked it up out of curiosity. Its leather cover was worn, its pages yellowed with age. My heart skipped as I picked it up, and curiously opened to the first page... A date stared back at me— it was 27th August, 2005. “A twenty year old diary in the bathroom cabinet? What the hell?”

The geometry of an oversight. The desk lamp in Mira’s room was the only light left burning in the small apartment. Outside, the autumn wind rattled the loose window pane, casting erratic, shuddering shadows across the stacks of borrowed textbooks and photocopied municipal ledgers that cluttered her floor. Mira sat rigid in her chair, her eyes fixed on the silver terminal slip resting beside her keyboard. The polished metal surface didn't reflect the blue light of her laptop; it seemed to absorb it, the digital timestamp on its edge pulsing with a cold, rhythmic green glow.

“Oh, you guys are not going to believe this. Our little spy is a massive freak.” I adjusted my posture, holding the diary up to the ambient light of the limo. “‘If he pushed me against the bookshelves, I wouldn’t even fight back,’” I read, my voice dripping with dark amusement. “‘I want him to take control. I want him to rip this stupid sweater off me. I can practically feel his hands gripping my thighs, bruising my skin, pushing his huge dick inside my tight and wet aching pussy while he whispers my name…’”

"No. We should apologize instead." We held each other and broke down in tears. Leonard was still in a critical stage. Meanwhile, the content of his diary was published on the Internet. The diary recorded every moment we had spent together. I sat on the bench outside the ICU, and my phone kept vibrating. "Liv, have you seen the news? Leonard's diary has gone viral on the Internet!" "Oh my God! You guys had such great memories together!" "He loves you so much…" I tapped on my phone. The topic at the top of the trending list read, "high school memories of Leonard Burton."

" I lowered my gaze to the card again. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was looking for answers that didn't exist. Ryder had already told me. I talked too much. I slept. That was it. Still... I couldn't bring myself to throw the card away. Instead, I walked toward my bookshelf and pulled out the leather-bound diary I had kept since I was sixteen. Between pages filled with old memories, pressed flowers, random sketches, and thoughts I'd never shared with anyone... I carefully slipped the black key card inside. Closed the diary. Then slid it back into its place. Hidden.

Whitmore stands gaping at my diary. "Oh, wow! I didn't know you were a fan of Miss.OG, Ms. Sanders." He said turning the pages and reading my oh-so-difficulty collected handiwork. I sighed in relief. Good, the jerk hasn't figured it out yet. So I decided to play along. "Yes Sir. I'm a really big fan of hers. Well, you know hormonal teenagers, exam and college stress and all that..." I trailed off, laughing nervously. He frowned, thinking. And I took the opportunity to grab a hold of my diary and make a run for it. I snatched the diary from his hands and turned tail.

I was feeling scared and antsy. I opened the door and went inside . I ran upstairs and there was no sign of Max ; but I could smell his body wash . I took a deep breath and went back downstairs towards the part that was extended. I had never shown Max what I was doing , I never got around to doing it until I was done. I kept the room secret. I still felt bad about what I said at the Club yesterday. I walked towards the door and turned the knob gently and I stepped inside. I looked around and everything was as I left it except for the corner couch next to a window where I kept a couple of my old journals, and my baby diary. I had bought the diary for myself when I found out about the baby we

I hate being hit in the face— Olivier's hand trembled when he discovered Kalliste's childhood diary, causing his eyes to widen and his jaw to drop. (Did she really put her childhood diary here?!) He was shocked, but he seemed to understand because the space was small, with only one round small window and a one-of-a-kind key to enter. (No one can enter or sneak in here. Except for me, of course.) As he proceeded to read Kalliste's diary, Olivier smiled triumphantly to himself.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, Oliver crouched beside me with a small notebook in hand and solemnly read aloud his thought report from the night before. "...In summary, when my owner blasted weird, loud, and annoying noises on the outdoor dancer speaker yesterday, she profoundly expressed her unique insight into postmodern deconstructive art. Her uniquely independent spirit deeply captivated me. "I love her so much that I'm drawn to her like a moth to a flame." He finished reading and looked at me expectantly. "My owner, did I use that phrase correctly?" "Half correct," I said, mixing paint without looking up. "You're definitely the moth, but I'm not the flame; I'm an electric bug zap