Breaking Her Novels & Stories

Because a heart can only be broken so many times before it refuses to mend. A choking roar, like shattered dreams, tumbles from her as she falls from the sky. No longer a beast with wings, but a fragile, breakable woman. A woman who has lost her world and keeps fighting to have it back. With a whip of my tail, I make up my mind. From this moment forward there is no going back.

She lets out a hiccup as she calms down some more. "You are not weak. You did not break either. If you had broken then you would have told all of the secrets. Every single one. You might have wanted to break but you are stronger than they gave you credit for. Tears does not mean that you are broken. There are only cracks. Cracks that can be fixed easily." I tell her.

Funny how a sentence could break her down like that. With a new surge of strength she didn’t know she had, she rose on her feet, noticing how much they hurt. Who knew that walking without shoes for hours would hurt so damn much, she was sure to get blisters. Releasing a puff of air, she threw one last look at the sprawling hill before she began her walk back home, ignoring the looks people threw her way as they took in her appearance; cheeks stained with tears, barefooted and covered in mud. Yeah, it wasn’t a look she would have wanted to be caught in. But oh well, what could she say? She had a breakdown.

she barely whispered, voice trembling on the edge of breaking. And this time he wasn't trying to pin her down. She turned and stepped back from the door, icy wind slapping against her skin. But never once had she made it through it, her legs buckling. Because even when she'd managed to break free from him. Her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

But she couldn’t. Not anymore. The lie she lived, the man she loved, the family who claimed to protect her—they were all tightening around her like wire. And she was the glass. Cracking. Fracturing. Holding on by a single, fragile thread. Soon, she wouldn’t just be splitting in two. Soon, she would shatter. And she knew with terrifying clarity: When she finally broke, nothing in the Rossi house—or the city—would ever be the same again.

She wrote about what the hiding had built that the open alone could not have produced. She wrote: the breaking and the healing are both in the record. Neither one erases the other. The building that you do from the break is only possible because of the specific understanding that the break gave you. You did not earn the break. The break was wrong. But what you make from it is yours, and it is real, and it could not exist without having been you specifically who survived it and chose to build.

"Annabeth, marry me. Please don't leave me again. I can't lose you." Tears soaked into my neck, making me shiver. "What's happening? She survived?" "Oh my God! No one has survived the Supreme Court in hundreds of years, but she did!" "Guys, I checked. She donated all of that bastard's money." "And her work as a streamer was only to make money fast so she could donate it to children in remote areas." "Oh my God, I finally understand why she only had 2,000 dollars left. You guys, I'm going to cry!"

In his time as a True Crime writer, Byron had interviewed many people, many of them disturbed or troubled in some way. In these interviews, he would often run up against what he called The Breakdown, to the point where, due to the pressures of telling him their story a person would hit an unknown well of feelings and just… shut down, usually in a maelstrom of tears. They always recovered but it was at a point that Byron always hated, even dreaded.

Everyone of us is broken in one way or the other. We just find a way, a thing or a person that glues us together. And sometimes, we don’t even find that so we learn to live with our broken parts and wait for that day when they will stop hurting. ~ A. Gupta Violet

I had become a broken vessel, shattered and discarded, just like the windows of my soul. As I stood there, swaying on unsteady feet, I couldn't help but feel like a mere pile of mud, trampled on by the world around me. My spirit was fractured, my hope shattered. But deep down, buried beneath the layers of pain, a flicker of defiance remained. A small voice whispered, "Maybe, just maybe, there's a way to piece myself back together."