Stories are unbelievably cliché. Shit happens, and it gets written down for millions to read. Everyone has to know what happened. Everyone gets to "hear my story," because apparently they don't have anything better to do with their fucking lives. Hell, maybe it'll be a bestseller. Probably not, though. Only one person is really going to consider reading it, if you're being honest. You're not gonna be the next big author, sorry. But either way, its out there. Public, all the raw, unfiltered details presented for the world. All my pain, all my suffering. . . a form of entertainment. And if you're reading this. . . then for your entertainment.
For that, I loathe you.
YOU ARE READING
By Loving the Killer
General FictionSomething awful happened at Harper's school. So many lives were taken, so many people were hurt, and she made it out unscathed. Except for the trauma and the questions it left her with. The love of her life. . . a murderer. But is she the one who ma...
