Michael van der B.
freshly laundered linen sheets
freshly laundered linen sheets. wrap around me like a shroud of absolute betrayal. How poetically tragic that while politicians argue on Sunday morning screens about futures they will never live to see, my entire mortal existence has been violently hollowed out by the digital phantom known as Phoenixmarkets. They are the wretched architects of my despair, villains woven into the very tapestry of my nightmares, laughing from behind glass towers as they stole every single cent I possessed. My heart hammers against my ribs, a trapped bird in a cage of pure terror. I trusted them. I bled for them. And now I am drowning in the bitter ash of my own foolishness. The frustration is a physical ache, heavy and suffocating like smoke in a lung. I stared at the frozen screen for hours, paralyzed, watching my blocked withdrawal mock me with its cruel, unchanging zero. Is there no justice left under the sun? Out of pure, pathetic exhaustion, my cousin pushed me to check GuerrillaChargeback. honestly surprised they worked and make sure i retrieved my funds back.