Being at the Bad Boy's Mercy

Being at the Bad Boy's Mercy

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Mon, Jan 8, 2018
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Fiction
Romance
My name is Penelope Avery and I am in deep trouble. You see I have this bat shit crazy, god-like looking bad boy on my tail after I maybe accidentally, but not really embarrassed him in front of our whole school. Its not my fault though! You see, I have this condition which in certain situations make me act as some would say reckless, or as others would describe as childlike. Its not as serious as some peoples, but still as troublesome as most. You see I have this sort of compulsive disorder that's sole purpose (in my opinion) is prohibiting me from having a normal lie. For example at some random moments in my everyday life. for some reason, whatever is going on in my brain at that moment ( like maybe a dumb, outlandish, maybe kinky thought of lifting up a certain bad boy's shirt and complimenting him on it) will trigger my body to unconsciously do as its said (or though). Like actually lifting up Alaric Evander's shirt and commending him on how much his abs resemble a washboard while simultaneously stroking it in front of the whole student body... and that's why I'm at the bad boy's mercy.
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DIABOLIC SERIES 3 All my life I've lost my breath. It would happen over the simplest things, if I stretched too high to catch a ball, lifted something for too long, if I sneezed, if I talked. Other times I would loose my breath because I had a panic attack, or was yelling or being yelled at, if I was exerting myself on a physical level. Having the wind knocked out of me is a familiar feeling. But I didn't truly know what it felt like to loose the air in my lungs, loose the feeling that has kept my alive my entire life. I didn't loose it when I fell in love, I didn't loose it when I found out one drunken night with the girl I love would mean a baby, I didn't loose it when I found out that I'd actually be a father. No, I lost that when she told me that she doesn't love me. When she spit in my face how much she can't stand me, how I've ruined her life, that she doesn't want me in any aspect. I'm not her 'type' whatever that means, seeing as she quite willingly had sex with me. Her saying this made this ugly, lonely and depressing thought hit my diaphragm. Violet Thompson is carrying my child. And she despises me for it. The way I came to this conclusion was simple, Nonnie- -that's what I call her, since her middle name's Noel and I wanted something to call her that if I shouted it in the middle of a crowd, only she would turn to and know it's me- -told me that all she wants is someone there. A father for her baby, a physical presence. Not a mind, personality. Not a person. A body. A shell. I've been a dead man walking. And I was that shell, was just a body... until I found him.

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