“I detest you spoiled little rich bitches,” she snarled. Until I learned how soft and gutless you are.” Sue was stunned. Not even speaking to what you call ‘poor white trash’. Smirking little princesses like you helped make my life miserable a long time ago. They are calling it their Love Sucks sale; the whole pitch is “Love sucks, but your Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to!
"everyone grieves differently" "you just feel how you need to feel" "if you need anything, just let me know" fuck that noise.
I don't want to feel how I need to feel, whatever the fuck that means.
I don't know what I need, besides the overwhelming urge to flee from a populated room and lock myself in a cold, dark room. Not the toss-and-turn-for-four-fucking-hours, pillow-throwing, rage-inducing sleep. Not the kind of sleep that eventually ends with laying in bed until the afternoon, only to "wake up" tired and numb. That which I used to enjoy has become an anxiety-inducing chore, and to engage is to panic.
I don't grieve for those I lost; I don't grieve differetly, because I, apparently, don't fucking grieve — I get bitter. The kind of tired that feeds my ever-growing spirit of bitterness that has taken ahold and sunk its filthy fucking claws in the nape of my neck, tearing, shredding, and pulling in every direction I don't want it to. I used to be so happy, so inspired, and full of dreams.
$19.99 for the monthly billing option, $9.99 monthly cost for the $119.88 one-year deal, go: The heavy portable wooden stocks, the chains, and the cramped closet are agony enough.
But when her captor opens the door to beat her lightly with a stick, before plunging her back into darkness again?
“Unless you agree to give your precious little body to whomever I say.” “No! So far the only pain she felt was from the leather straps cutting into her wrists and ankles.
She writhed and twisted on the table, but the rod went in easily.
They’re gonna like that sweet little body of yours.” Sue paled.