Diary Of An Oxygen Thief Novels & Stories

She set it on the ottoman and opened the latch. The lock was broken. Her breath caught in her throat. “No. No, no—” she whispered. The box was empty. Her diary was gone. Her most intimate confessions, written in the rawest moments of pain and hope. Every twisted memory from Russia. Every wound Cynthia left on her skin and soul. Every moment of self-loathing, every hesitant word about Damian… even that one vivid entry—the night she gave herself to him, trembling, finally feeling safe. All of it. Gone.

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

"Each time, it grows sweeter. Each time, your husband’s love seasons the meat. You are a exquisite vintage, my little bird. And I am so very thirsty." With a sudden, violent shove, the entity threw me forward. I hit the floor hard, my palms scraping against the loose floorboards I had just pried open. The diary—my precious lifeline—skidded across the stone and disappeared under the heavy wardrobe. I gasped for air, the oxygen burning my lungs like fire. I scrambled to my feet, spinning around to face the room. It was empty. The sunlight was streaming through the high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The shattered vase of lilies lay on the floor, the water soaking into

O’er cliff and cave, through mist and gloom, She carries life back to the womb. A phantom swift, a breath, a sigh, The thief who makes the dragons cry. Skylar I jolt awake, disoriented because of the very real dream I was having where a golden dragon was talking to me. I shake my head. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a dream. Maybe that was real. Or was it? “My lady! My lady, you have to get up. The thief stole the egg! King Augustus is furious!” one of my maids says.

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.

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.

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.

I took a deep breath inhaling all the dust that had been stagnating in the room. 'The watchman has become blind ', I thought as I decided to lock the door again when I noticed something. A diary. I walked in and picked it up. Pink I'm colour, had to be a girl's diary. I walked out with it turning off the lights and locking the door again. I opened it. This Diary belongs to Akansha Goenka. The first sentence I read after opening it in fine cursive handwriting. It belonged to Akansha. Not that bad either.

🖱️Victor🖱️ The diary sat in my hand like it was alive, breathing, watching me, judging me, and the blue fire wrapped around my fingers didn’t burn anymore, it just existed like it belonged there, like it had always been waiting for me to notice it. I stared at it for a long time, longer than I should have, my thoughts drifting somewhere I had been trying very hard not to go. Jayden.

I can only conclude because this is not written in the diary either. "Does Duna actually know what a diary is?" I complained. After storing the ID Card and mercenary ID in the drawer, I took some packets of cookies from the cupboard and read the diary again. If I look again, the first few pages have been torn. Maybe Duna used to write a diary, but suddenly made this book into a notebook. Starting from the Xenobeast category, mercenary system, base system, to how to use guns and laser swords. January 27, 3043