Pennies (Dollar, #1)

by Pepper Winters

I wasn’t living. I was dying. They just couldn’t see it.

I liked to make up fantasies because I had nothing else to do. I spent my achingly boring days going over every nook and cranny of my jail.

Silence was a weapon I could wield better than panic. And if it meant I never uttered another word until I found freedom, then so be it.

She made me what I was.

He’d killed me. I hadn’t been able to stop him. So why couldn’t he have left me dead?

When does living become the wrong choice and death the right one? When does taking your own life become wiser than letting someone else destroy it?

If you can’t predict him, you’ve failed Psychology 101.

WHY DOES EVERY KIDDNAPED GIRL STUDY PSYCHOLOGY. I CAN PREDICT MY JAILER BLAH BLAH STFU AND STOP THIS SHIT

According to my heritage, I was a no one. Not worthy to be called a man. I’m fine with that.

His hair was blacker than black, looking like an ink spill on the death of a perfect night. His gaze matched the coal depths, hiding so much but taking everything in.

you got me pep

He was handsome and staring right at me.

heheheheh

I’d seen some shit in my past. I’d committed crimes. I’d done my fair share of filth. But I’d never met someone who thought they could own a human soul before.

Once someone enticed thoughts of suicide into their soul, it was there to stay, slowly corrupting them until they found their way back to life or gave in and let demise claim them.

I could kill her, and she’d probably thank me for setting her free. Maybe I should. Perhaps I will.

Reverence for those wiser, older, and smarter than you. Appreciation for those kinder, gentler, and nicer than you. And utmost worship for those who could fucking annihilate you without a single thought.

Trust me, Pim. Let me steal your secrets

I would remember him always. He would forget me tomorrow.

The world had two types of people. The first were the takers. They only noticed those who could help them, offering friendship for false reasons—their egos preventing improvement of their superficial interest. The second were the givers. Those who knew they were being taken advantage of but couldn’t stop it. They’d give and give until they had nothing left. But by giving, they saw things, watching silently in the shadows. This girl was a giver.

She smelled of nothing. No, that wasn’t true. She smelled of fucking desperation.

He’s sniffed suicide on me.

I didn’t mind silence in people, but silence in my surroundings wasn’t a good thing.

Maybe all of this is my fault, and I just let men use me? Not just men.

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do. I’m sorry for what I am. You’re worth pennies, but I’ll make you worth fucking millions. However, what I expect in return will be unpayable.”