Pain~Niall Horan

Pain~Niall Horan

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WpMetadataNoticeLast published Fri, Jul 21, 2017
With every hit, it sent pain through my already aching body, some days it was bearable, but others...not so much. Every hit, every cut, every single part of my body filled with memories of which I didn't want to remember. The constant abuse from my father, my mother left when I was five, leaving me to face up against this monster alone. I should be living a normal 18 year old life, I should be getting good grades and looking into colleges but how am I supposed to do any of that when some days I can hardly even move. I just want to escape this pathetic life that I live, I want to be free from this tight grasp that my father has around my neck, I just want to be...normal. I'm done with living in constant fear of weather I have another day in me left to live. I'm willing to take chances and risks that I've only dreamed of so that I can finally break free, but I may find something that will make me think twice about my choices. Warning: This book will contain vulgar language, verbal and physical abuse, and some intimate scenes, if you do not like any of those things then I suggest for you to either skip the scenes or don't read the book. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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#931
louistomlinson
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"You're not going to leave me, are you?" I asked as I looked ahead at nothing, focusing on feeling his breathing on the back of my neck. "Never," he whispered. "I'll be here until you get tired of me." He was holding me in his arms, with his back to the wall of my bedroom. Both of his arms were wrapped around me, and I could see the prominent cross tattoo on his right hand. I had had another attack, feeling like the world was caving in on me. As soon as I felt that familiar pang in the bottom of my stomach reaching up to my chest, I would call him. Almost immediately, I would hear a knock at my door. He would always drop what he was doing if he received a call from me, telling him that it's happening again. He would be on my front step, always, with a few pints of ice cream and comfort. He was my rock. He was my sedative. My cure.

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