The Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

The two of them looked at each other and started running, I waited for them, watching them make that futile attempt to escape me, and in my mind I wondered if they knew what would come next, and how meaningless their attempting to escape was. "Why not just fight and die with your dignity still intact?" I whispered. Then in a flicker, I dashed towards them, catching the first and throwing him against a wall, I heard something crack and it was the bone of his thigh, the second one made a final attempt to redeem himself, he shoved down a wooden stake into my chest as I grabbed him by the neck and screamed loudly, I waited for him to let it all out before biting into his neck, my fangs pierced h

"Jacob, I know you. You are a traitor. You and Arthuro are the same. He thought of only one solution for everything. To stop his punishment. The flash drive that Arthuro is holding now. That flash drive contains many files. Everything, a small flash drive, is equal to all the chaos in Anastashia's family, in the secret world, in wealth, in lies, in murder, and in the mafia world. She wiped her tears. She went to a diary app. She was even surprised why Owen had such a thing. Her son also likes to write. Owen really got more of Arthuro's genes. Arthuro is also a writer. The diary app has no password. She looked at the door. She stood up and closed it. "What is Owen writing here?" she asked her

All while she, Almay, the one who raised her, clothed her, albeit barely, was rotting in a dump with a plastic kettle and expired canned food. It was not right. It was not fair. She reached deeper into the suitcase, fingers brushing against worn velvet. She pulled out a small, nondescript wooden box. Her breath hitched. Slowly, she opened it. Inside lay a faded leather-bound diary. The edges were frayed, the gold-embossed letters barely visible now, but they read: “Diamante Lunaria Hernandez.”

Terrifyingly, horribly awake. I stepped closer despite myself, my feet moving against every instinct to run. My mouth hung open as I took in the details—each photo was of me. Not just one, not just a handful. Me, in dozens of places, dozens of moments. Old photos, some faded with time, dating back six years. And new ones—chillingly recent, one from just last week. The arrangement was methodical, precise. From floor to ceiling, pinned in perfect rows, each picture dated in small handwriting at the top corner. It was not random obsession—it was a diary. My diary. My life, stolen and catalogued without my consent.

I found a few notes of cash so I took out a few notes from that drawer. When I was getting money from the drawer something fell on the ground. I bent down and picked up the book from the ground. I saw that it was a diary. I opened the diary. On the first page, it was written that it solely belongs to Aaron Malhotra. Whoever reads this diary without its owner's permission will face severe consequences... I kept the diary on the bed and gave money to the maid. I told her to bring me 2-3 packets of sanitary pads.

Stella–POV I tossed and turned; sleep eluded me. Frustrated, I sat up and made my way to retrieve the diary, hoping to find a way to unlock its secrets. I carefully pulled out the journal and, once again, attempted to open it using a hammer on the small lock. To my dismay, it remained stubbornly shut. Exhausted and defeated, I sank back, only to feel a hot trickle of blood from my nose— a telltale sign of stress. Scrambling to find a tissue box, I heard an unexpected click, and to my surprise, the lock popped open, triggered by a drop of blood.

"Didn't I tell you that you're the only woman he loves deeply? One more reason I came here. I want to give this to you." She got stunned when the old woman suddenly handed her a familiar notebook that she was starting to recognize. To her surprise, it was the diary she owned way back in her high school days. The diary where she chronicled all her feelings to Thyago way back in her teenage days, the diary where it all began...

my head is still filled with this insane images and I didn't need some boy problems now the locker room was empty when I got there, perfect just what I needed , silence. I sat down slowly, my hands trembling slightly as I opened my bag. the diary was still there, staring at the cover, the bright colors, the stickers filled it front and back, the pink, purple, blue, white, red, all the fucking colors you can think of, it was her, literally and metaphorically her, it was supposed to be filled with adventures and names of friends but instead it corrupted with one persons name, it's so sickening how someone turned something so bright to something so dark, my hands tightens around the book , tear

“But it tells you where the bones are buried.” Silence settled. “He’s not just forcefully taking what he thinks I owe him in Naples, he also wanted to see how I think,” I continued. “How I grow. How do I protect? That warehouse wasn’t a vault. It was a diary.” “And diaries,” Diego muttered, “aren’t meant to be read.” I looked at Milo. “Any trace?” “None,” he said. “No alarms. No internal damage. No deletions. They copied everything and left.”

He whispered, taunting. I rubbed my legs together, needing some friction there. “Keep those legs apart, ruby. Spread them wider.” “Please,... Doctor, I… please…” I tried to keep them apart, my body squirming uncontrollably like a worm laced with salt. I rubbed my thighs together, but it wasn't enough. I needed penetration to release the pressure. “Please what ruby? You think I don't notice how you stare at me all day at book club? “Mmmm.” I whimpered like a pathetic slut.