The Soul Of My Soul Novels & Stories

After suffering these exact consequences multiple times already due to her father and all his men, Summer was all but immune to the pain and the dark dingy cell right below her father's mansion. "Do you hear me?!" Michael bellowed as Summer remained unmoved. "Of course." Summer rasped out finally standing. "Am I killing him or questioning him?" She fixed a blank stare on Michael as he mulled over her question. "Question," he decided. "I want to know what gave him the courage to even step foot in here." "As you wish." Music blared in the club down below, the sound so loud it was giving Summer a splitting headache.

Only if I had known my soul would have been sold for nothing, I would have ended it. The room hadn't changed a bit all these years. Same dark walls that made the room intimidating and the absolute perfection in the way it was organized just as its owner, hiding all that evil just barely underneath the surface, simmering and waiting for the perfect time to strike its prey. I repressed a shudder and took a seat waiting for him to notice my presence in the room. He was writing in a journal on the desk, I had always wondered what he wrote in there, the number of people he killed, or the latest mission he accomplished?

That year, I fell in love. I watch as the stars glow and the wind howled. It's as if I'm still here, body, mind, and soul. Even in the afterlife, he has so much of me. Does he even think of me? When he learned of my demise, did he even shed a tear? I shook my head as memories start to flood all over again. Flashes of our days together, me and Devon running down the stairs of the school's fire exit so he could kiss me deeply and whisper things like, "God you're so beautiful Hannah, I'm so crazy for you..." and I would kiss him back with the same need and passion because I felt it. He was beautiful, magnificent, he was my soulmate...but, why am I alone now? Cold and dead and he was there slumb

my mom offered with a weak smile. The resemblance between her and Ashley was uncanny. One might think she was Ashley’s twin instead of me. My dad helped me up and carried me to the room as my mom walked behind him. But the terrifying image of Anthony Gordon emerging from flames kept replaying in my mind. It made me wonder what really happened on the blood moon. The Chesterfields connected us with tubes, and Yarikh’s box was in between. So I wondered what was transferred from me to him when I blacked out. But whatever it was, I hoped I would never see him again.

"I know who I am. I am Kerik Renfred you wrench! The Queen of all life and dead creatures of the world." "That's not possible-" "I am Kerik Renfred!" My voice grew louder and louder over every word, and my confidence slowly returned back to me. There was no way to survive hell, without taking a piece of it with you. Something only dark souls can understand. "The worst kind of pain, is the one you feel in your soul, it slowly devours everything and weighs you down until you can no longer move. It hurts more than any burn, any scar and any bruise. Because it would never heal, no matter what you do. It's always there inside of you."

My very soul. Would never be the same again.

And somehow I want to be reincarnated, yet I don't have a soul so it's not possible. Before I could react, Michael appeared in front of us. "You go to hell, by means of that, you are going to disappear. Poof!" He gestured with a mocking smile. "Like you never existed." "Do you want to wipe us all, vampires?" He nodded. "I am working on erasing your existence and I am going to start with your clan." "Will it end if I kill myself?" "It won't. You have no soul," Syne replied from a distance. "You will disappear and will never go back so you don't dare die until you grow a soul and I can reincarnate you."

“It can’t be love, not on his part. Not with his wretched family. I’ve seen the way he acts around the village—there’s one thing he wants from her, and it’s not her hand in—” “We need hope as much as we need bread and meat,” he interrupted, his eyes clear for a rare moment. “We need hope, or else we cannot endure. So let her keep this hope, Mira. Let her imagine a better life. A better world.” I stood from the table, fingers curling into fists, but there was nowhere to run in our two-room cottage. I looked at the discolored foxglove painting at the edge of the table. The outer trumpets were already chipped and faded; the lower bit of the stem rubbed off entirely. Within a few years, it would