Broken Life Novels & Stories

The road was spinning; Denise staggered along throwing her hands in the air like a lunatic. Her heart was shattered. Her little dream was a mere fantasy. The reality of Clark’s true colours made a sharp pain cut through her stomach. Denise was on the road and there were moving vehicles but she did not care. If only the world would swallow her sorrow and make her disappear without a trace, Denise would pay any price.

But just then, a tearing pain ripped through my chest. "Argh!" A violent cough ripped through me, and blood sprayed from my lips. My knees gave out. I crashed to the floor as a phantom hand plunged into my chest and tore my soul in half. This feeling... The mate bond... it's breaking! "No! Evelyn!" I screamed at the sky. "Impossible!" The pain grew more intense. I could feel the invisible thread connecting our souls snapping, inch by inch. Every break was like another slice into my heart. "Austen!" Seraphina knelt beside me in terror. "What's wrong?"

With ten years of scheming gone up in smoke, their faces ruined beyond repair, and the fortune they'd nearly seized vanishing like a mirage, how could they not break? Traumatized, Winnie began muttering about faceless figures stalking her. She screamed every night, and two days later, she fell gravely ill and died. But the one who suffered the most was Felix, who was still lucid. Regret tore at him every day, and the other patients tormented him to no end. Under the Roosevelts' quiet orders, he was placed in a room with a violent psychopath and spent his days getting beaten bloody, flinching at the slightest noise.

It brought a sudden, overwhelming weakness that fractured the walls I had spent my entire life building. A hot, stinging moisture pricked the corners of my eyes. I blinked, and a single tear slid down my dirt-streaked cheek, pooling in the crook of my ear. I looked at the broken roof, my chest trembling as a quiet, shuddering sob escaped my lips. I wept for the terror of the fall, for the freezing dark that had almost killed me, and for the agonizing miracle of the air in my lungs. I was broken, I was hunted, and I was entirely alone…but I was alive.

The boy was trembling, the gold-violet glow of his hair flickering like a dying candle. "The North belongs to the broken?" The man laughed, a sound like glass being ground into a wound. "That’s a nice sentiment for a Hallmark card, Genesis. But in a high-tier web novel, 'The Broken' are only interesting when they are currently being smashed. If you want to keep the audience, you need a 'Crisis'." Lyra lunged from the shadows, her shadow-wings a violent canopy of violet starlight. She struck the man with her obsidian blade, but the metal stopped inches from his chest, hitting an invisible wall of "Negative Feedback."

Worship made me blind. Now I see. Now I take. Now I become the kind of man who doesn’t break. Because broken things don’t bleed. They cut.

Sue was sentenced to life in prison. When she saw everyone mocking and ridiculing her wrongdoings online, she somehow managed to get her hands on a knife and took her own life. Meanwhile, Zach was rushed to the hospital. His body was badly burned by sulfuric acid, making him unrecognizable. Repairing his appearance would require numerous painful surgeries, and even then, he would never look the same again. After his affair with Sue was exposed, the Sorensen Corporation's stock prices plummeted overnight, putting it on the brink of bankruptcy.

Something interesting. And the girl, the woman, Novalee, Mrs. Santoro, the Red Bride, the vessel, she existed. In pieces. In fragments. In moments stolen between positioning. Between filling. Between being nothing but a womb. She existed. And that was enough. For now. Until it wasn't. Until something broke. Someone broke. Everything broke. And then they'd see. What remained. What survived. What was left after the obsession finally ended. One way or another.

Phoenix sobbed. The breakdown was total. The Queen of Rebirth was dead, buried under the rubble of a mother’s catastrophic failure. Her legs gave out, her knees slamming into the grit of the cave floor with a bone-jarring thud she didn't even register. Tears—hot, salt-heavy, and uncontrollable—cascaded down her face, cutting tracks through the gray soot on her cheeks. She bit her lip so hard the iron taste of blood flooded her mouth, a desperate, futile attempt to anchor herself as her mind spiraled into the image of her son becoming nothing more than a pile of gray dust in a New York basement she never truly escaped.

The very ground, the foundation of us, cracks under the assault. The stakes are no longer about a dirty plate. The Graft itself is straining, the magical and biological sutures stretching to their breaking point. I feel a terrifying thinness in the connection, a sense that one more blow, one more perfectly aimed memory, will snap it entirely. Failure isn’t just a lost argument. It’s a mutual lobotomy. A severing that would leave us two empty, mindless husks, forever haunted by the ghost of what we broke. We can’t win. We can only destroy.