Journals of a Psychopath.

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Another peek into my novel.

The Shrine

Lady Flarice was spread-eagled and Connor's tongue caressed her honeyed-place, she gasped.
      “You know how to please me, I am so glad we are together,” she said.
Vowing revenge and the incantations were lengthy, I recited the mantras, especially created relevant to the death-knell. Neither desired to sleep, I meditated on the matters of the twisted. I detested the Lady Flarice with all my senses and all the life force within me, nevertheless I wanted her. Delving into the trunk, I seized the paint, daubing my face, and white stripes adorned my cheeks, I was ready as a warrior.
      “He will fall on the concrete of the segregation cell and beg for leniency,” the Purifiers and the Archangel said.

Stepfather

Lifting the sweater and becoming aware of the knife wounds, the bruises, and the scars, he was shocked. A timid man and Edward's body reflected his personality, which was puny the rashes on stepfather’s face, a testament to his anxiety. My stepfather was short and mother towered over him.
      “Go to your room,” he said.
He challenged mother.
      “Did you injure the boy?”
      “It was a bully at his school.”
Mother’s eyes peered into stepfather’s, I peeped through the crack in the stair rail mother did not acknowledge the violence.
I heard the incredulity in my stepfather's voice, the audacity in mother's tone it squashed any hope of my deliverance. Hanson sniggered, as he plodded into my room, he was the same as mother, and malevolence dominated. He closed his viewing-disks and sensed the Archangel sidle into me. I welcomed the Entity. Hanson was afraid and he shrank back from me, the evil in me apparent. Hanson left my room I was victorious.
      “You see you made him scared.”
      “I am mightier than he is,” I replied.

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