The Sober Diaries Novels & Stories

Chapter 2 Sophia’s POV “The sound of a deep voice like yours sometimes. The way fabric rubs right against my clit when I walk. Even the smell of clean male skin or aftershave. It’s humiliating. I feel like such a fucking freak.” “My last doctor just gave me antidepressants and said it was all in my head, just anxiety. But it’s not anxiety. It’s like my pussy has a mind of its own and it wants cock twenty-four seven.” “I wake up soaked and aching every morning, I go to bed soaked and aching every night, and in between I’m fighting the urge to grind against anything I can find just to get a little relief.”

I start to write, my hand moving quickly across the paper: "Dear Diary, I did it. I spent an entire day naked, and it was the most liberating experience of my life. I felt so free, so uninhibited. I did everything naked – watched TV, ate, cleaned the house, even danced around like a fool. And you know what? It was amazing. I felt sexy and powerful and alive. I know it sounds crazy, but I think I might do it again sometime. Maybe next weekend. Wish me luck!"

Plug still buzzes low. I reach back, turn it off. Asshole relaxes around it. Clit pulses, red from pinches. I pull off the dildo slow, juices stringing. 'Fucked good.' Ankles still cuffed, I lie there, body trembling. Bed soaked under me, thighs slick. 'Needed that,' I whisper. Midnight shadows hide my mess, but I feel it all.

UNKNOWN DIARYYY, Just her mere presence in my vicinity, and I can already feel myself becoming strongerrr. I saw her naked body today, Diary… she was taking a shower, wanted to get rid of all the dirt she had on her from packing or so she said. I could see her through the walls, Diary —lots of demons like me do this to unsuspecting girls all over the world who manage to catch our attention, you know? — And you have no idea how I wished she could sense my presence, but I’m not that strong yet!

"Good evening, Lara!" "It's my first time here, and I'm not... how can I say it, I haven't been sober for even a day." She fell silent, unsure of what else she could contribute. The sounds of crickets outside, the rural darkness. She looked into the eyes of each person there and felt hopeless, unable to imagine achieving what they had. She wasn't that strong, not at all. "I don't know if I can do it. I think that's the truth. And even if I do someday, I don't know if I'll open up here like you all did. Don't get me wrong, I don't think what you did wasn't beautiful, sharing your stories, opening up, but I don't think I'll do that, and I don't see how it helps. I don't believe that baring my

I don’t even know how on earth he could have them or if they are even real. What kind of witchcraft is this? I gawp at him, so sure I’m dreaming and should pinch myself to break this god-awful nightmare once and for all. Diaries of years and years of having no one else to turn to and offload the horrors of my life. This was how I got it out of my head and battled on to breathe another day. I put everything into these dire little notebooks. Every woe and dark secret. Every confession and dying dream. It was my outlet to stay sane, and I used them to tear the ugliness out of my brain and lock them away to burden the books instead of me.

But now I could see the torment in his eyes. He ran a hand through his curls and sat down slowly, motioning for me to do the same. There was a small fire burning in a metal bowl on the table. Beside it, a leather-bound journal sat, its pages partially torn. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he began. “You’re the only person I trust now.” I didn’t speak. I only nodded, urging him to speak on. By now, I was restless, the air around us was tensed.

But sitting in this nice kitchen, with this nice guy who had literally carried my drunk ass home and made me breakfast, made it harder to stay closed off. I stayed quiet for a long moment, staring at the countertop. Jordan waited patiently. When I didn’t speak, he added softly, “Please? You can trust me.” I exhaled shakily and ran a hand through my messy hair. “I’m… I..lo.. someone I shouldn’t be,” I said finally “Someone completely off-limits. It’s been eating me alive for months. Every time I try to forget, it gets worse. So I drink. I get high. I suck random cocks hoping it’ll drown it out. But it never does. It just makes everything hurt more afterward.”

But tonight, none of that mattered. As I went closer to the bar, my fears kept pulling me back, but no! I grabbed the bottle. "Johnny Walker," the label read. With a twisted grin, I uncapped it and placed it against my lips. I didn’t sip. I gulped. I kept drinking until a sharp pain tore through my chest. I gasped, pressing a hand against my ribs. But then, I laughed again—because Michael Finsch was a disgusting bastard, and I was an even bigger fool.

"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."