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Love's Bitter Truth

Love's Bitter Truth

Gavin

5.0
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11
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For ten years, I was the picture of a devoted husband, building a life with Chloe in our comfortable Bellevue home. My life felt stable, successful, exactly what her image-conscious parents approved of for their daughter. Then came the news: Leo, Chloe' s tumultuous musician ex, had died. A drug overdose, labeled suicide. Days later, my wife, my Chloe, drove her car straight off the Deception Pass Bridge. Grief-stricken, clearing out her laptop, I stumbled upon a password-protected blog. "Leo1998." Inside, ten years of her raw thoughts: "I married Ethan today... They just gave me a life sentence with his shadow." Another entry: "I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming... I felt so disgusted afterward I scrubbed my skin raw." My heart, already broken, shattered into a million pieces. The woman I adored had spent a decade despising my every touch, every act of love, pretending I was another man. My entire existence was a lie. The words burned through me: disgust, resentment, pity. My world collapsed beneath the weight of her betrayal. How could my decade of unwavering dedication, my honest love, have been nothing more than a painful charade for her? The sheer, pointless waste of it all. Then, darkness. But instead of an ending, I jolted awake to the smell of stale coffee, in my old college dorm. My phone buzzed: a text from Chloe. The date: September 15, 2014. Ten years in the past. The day of our first official date. This time, I knew the cost of playing her fool. This time, I would write my own story.

Introduction

For ten years, I was the picture of a devoted husband, building a life with Chloe in our comfortable Bellevue home.

My life felt stable, successful, exactly what her image-conscious parents approved of for their daughter.

Then came the news: Leo, Chloe' s tumultuous musician ex, had died.

A drug overdose, labeled suicide.

Days later, my wife, my Chloe, drove her car straight off the Deception Pass Bridge.

Grief-stricken, clearing out her laptop, I stumbled upon a password-protected blog.

"Leo1998."

Inside, ten years of her raw thoughts: "I married Ethan today... They just gave me a life sentence with his shadow."

Another entry: "I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming... I felt so disgusted afterward I scrubbed my skin raw."

My heart, already broken, shattered into a million pieces.

The woman I adored had spent a decade despising my every touch, every act of love, pretending I was another man.

My entire existence was a lie.

The words burned through me: disgust, resentment, pity.

My world collapsed beneath the weight of her betrayal.

How could my decade of unwavering dedication, my honest love, have been nothing more than a painful charade for her?

The sheer, pointless waste of it all.

Then, darkness.

But instead of an ending, I jolted awake to the smell of stale coffee, in my old college dorm.

My phone buzzed: a text from Chloe.

The date: September 15, 2014.

Ten years in the past.

The day of our first official date.

This time, I knew the cost of playing her fool.

This time, I would write my own story.

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The 21st Birthday Loop

The 21st Birthday Loop

Short stories

5.0

For sixteen years, I was a phantom in the Miller house, my entire existence centered on raising Caleb. My destiny was sealed: on his 21st birthday, I was to become his wife, a debt my family couldn't pay. In my first agonizing life, that wedding day led to a decade of imprisonment in their dark basement, then a horrific sale to the depraved Scrap Yard Joe, who brutally murdered me and my two young daughters. But then, a miracle: I jolted awake, it was Caleb' s 21st birthday party again. I was back. This time, I vowed to escape, coldly telling Caleb the "deal was off." His fury, fueled by his new girlfriend Chloe, erupted. They dragged me to their root cellar, where Chloe actively tried to crush me with cinder blocks. Escaping a terrifying encounter with Scrap Yard Joe, Chloe's eerie accomplice from my past, I returned to the party only to be publicly framed. A panicked confrontation led to the tragic, accidental death of Caleb' s mother-a death later revealed to be orchestrated by Chloe' s slow poison. I was beaten, battered, and finally, locked in the basement again as Chloe set it on fire, intending to burn me alive. Lying amidst the flames, every fiber of my being screamed. Why had my attempt at freedom only resulted in such a brutal, fiery trap? Was this wretched family, and the ghosts of my past, truly inescapable? Yet, fate had a cruel twist. I miraculously survived, forcing Caleb to believe me dead, consumed by guilt. He began a meticulous, horrifying revenge on Chloe, mirroring the torment I endured. Then, in the climax of his depravity, just as he raised a hunting knife over Chloe' s pregnant belly, a scarred, living ghost walked into the room: Me. And his world shattered.

My Ruthless Uncle's Justice

My Ruthless Uncle's Justice

Short stories

5.0

My alarm buzzed, a cheerful tune that mocked the dread in my stomach. Today was the day: our family road trip to Vegas. Last time, it was the day I died. I remembered the screech of tires, shrill against hot asphalt. The sickening crunch of metal, the world swirling upside down. Then, the suffocating smell of gasoline, my own blood. Frank – my father – had orchestrated it all. He'd meticulously sabotaged our car, intent on murdering my mother and me for our organs. His mistress, Jessica, had a dying son, Leo, and we were merely unwilling donors for their twisted scheme. I gasped, shooting bolt upright in my cramped suburban bedroom. The morning sun streamed through the cheap floral wallpaper, a cruel contrast to the grim reality that had just resurfaced. The gruesome memory of my death, brutally betrayed by my own flesh and blood, washed over me like a tidal wave of ice and raw panic. My blood ran cold. This wasn't a nightmare; it was today. The same day he planned to carve me up for parts. How could a father, the sworn protector, conceive such a monstrous act for another woman' s child? The sheer injustice, the chilling horror of it, was unbearable, turning my stomach. But then, the nausea receded, replaced by something cold, hard, and sharp: pure, unyielding rage. I wasn't that naive 19-year-old anymore. I was a ghost with a score to settle. This time, there would be no crash. No organs harvested. This time, they would be the ones to feel pain.

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