Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
When you say you hate men, I want to reach my eyeballs and gouge them out. You don’t hate men. If you did, you would’ve veered in the other direction or in no direction at all, but you watch porn.
Straight porn.
Hardcore straight porn.
And don’t even try to deny it, because I don’t believe asking for recommendations of my favorite sites every other month is a coincidence.
So, no, you don’t hate men. You just hate your inferiority complex. You hate that you can’t muster the courage to start a conversation or to lose the resting bitch face long enough for someone to approach you.
You’ve taken the word introvert to a whole different level and turned it into a hostile situation that you can’t escape anymore.
Your love for true crime and serial killers don’t make you edgy or smart, it just makes you cynical about every life situation.
So basically, even your hobbies are a method to veer you away from society and make you suspicious about everything in your surroundings.
Including your own mother. The woman you said immigrated, gave birth, and raised you all on her own.
You say your mother is always absent and doesn’t have time for you. But what do you do when she makes a dent in her schedule for your sake? You’re too uncomfortable to spend time alone with her anymore because you still hold a grudge against her.
Now, you didn’t tell me what type of grudge it is. Hell, you didn’t even mention that word. But I’m not an idiot. I know there’s bad blood between you two and you’re just taking it out on her.
You say you hate the cheer squad and the cheerleaders, but you mirror their nasty behavior the entire time. And deep down, you admire your captain because she’s everything you aren’t. You curse her any chance you get, but you’re in awe of how comfortable she is in her own skin.
Which can’t be said about you.
Not only do you hate yourself, but you’re also sometimes out to destroy yourself.
And your latest method for that is some sort of fetish about being chased and eventually caught, then raped. In what world would anyone consider that normal?
The fact that you want it in the first place should be a red alert.
Stop.
Go to a shrink and get some help.
Because you’re just spiraling out of control at this point. And soon enough, you’ll get bored of this fetish and destroy yourself by using another method.
What will it be next? Alcohol? Drugs? Prostitution?
Maybe you’ll end up in one of those psyche wards eating your own shit.
Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?
I don’t care. I didn’t start writing to you so I’d be the only audience for your pity parties or attempts to make yourself feel more grandiose than you really are.
This is me, true and unfiltered, and this is how I’m going to be from now on. I’m done playing nice and pretending that I approve of the shitty decisions you make.
From now on, you’ll get a reality check from me.
If you hate it, I don’t give a fuck. Don’t write back.
But I’ll continue writing. Don’t read my letters if that bruises your fragile ego, but I’ll keep them coming.
Go complain at customs.
Seriously. I have zero fucks to give at this point. Going forward, we’ll do it my way.
P.S. This is my actual personality. All the previous letters were me playing it down and being nice. I’ve had a wake-up call lately and realized I was always a bastard, so it’s pointless to pretend I’m someone I’m not.
Until next time, Yuki-Onna.
Love (but not really),
Akira
23
Naomi
If I had a doubt about positively losing my mind, it’s gone.
I am insane.
It’s been two weeks of pure madness. Of running in the woods and being chased around my dark house when Mom isn’t home.
Two weeks of pretending my monster isn’t the same football star everyone drools over on campus.
Two weeks of drifting.
And in these weeks, I’ve felt more alive than in my whole life.
Or more accurately, since it was snuffed out of me during that red night.
But even the feeling of being alive is shadowed by something else. Something eerily gloomy and haunting.
Something…bad.
I recognize it even though I try to hang on to the fantasy, to the addiction. To the fact that I’m not just a floating existence in the middle of a thousand others.
I’m special. I’m different. At least, to him.
Not Sebastian, but the beastly side of him.
The one who doesn’t take no for an answer and gets off on having me cry and writhe as he chokes me with his dick, then breaks me with it.
The one who wants me so badly, he’s blinded to everything but me.
The beast and I have a common ground. He gets off on the hunt and violence, and I can finally admit that I get off on being chased and degraded. On being used, roughed up, sensually ravished.