Picking Up The Broken Pieces Novels & Stories

My mind replayed every moment of the day—the roses scattering on the ground, the vows I didn’t mean, the kiss that wasn’t a kiss, the look in Kenneth’s eyes when he said he didn’t choose this either. I thought of the girl I had been before all this. The girl who once dreamed of freedom, of healing, of maybe even love. And I realized that girl was gone. In her place was a woman bound by broken pieces, tied to a man who carried his own shattered past. And I didn’t know if we would destroy each other—or if, somehow, those broken pieces might fit together. But tonight, all I knew was that I wasn’t ready to find out. So I closed my eyes, clutching the pillow like it could keep me whole.

Life would continue. And somehow, through all the broken pieces, they were moving forward. One truth at a time.

She reached down and picked up a jagged piece of the broken crown. "Then we go down," she said.

You promised" "He doesn't deserve you, princess. Let him go" "I can't. I love him and we promised to be together forever" "Promises are meant to be broken, Princess." "But..... But if I let him go then I'll be all alone." "You've never been alone Princess. I'm here" "But I can't even see you" "That is because you don't want to see me. Open your eyes and look at me. Really look"

I know that I am crossing the line but dude, I am not exaggerating as I don't want to involve myself in them again. I became kind and befriended by these creatures, but they deceived me. They broke my trust and it will never go back to the way it used to be. Once the trust is broken, it will never be the same again like the glass having its crack. Sometimes, it is better to leave them broken than try to hurt yourself putting it back together. In my condition, I am not the only one who became hurt as I tried to put it back together but also the people around me.

I put a 6 pack of hard cider in the basket and then promptly tried to pick it all up with my hurt hand. Shit. I carefully moved the handles further up my arm. I picked out a box of Wheaties. Yeah baby, fiber, I smirked to myself. I’m not getting any younger. Ok last thing, some soup bones for Biscuit. My hand was throbbing again, I could feel the sock getting heavy with blood. I needed to bind this wound especially since I can’t seem to NOT grab things with this hand.

I want to know if it was the same thing from a time before. “It’s called Piece.” “It’s a piece.” I knew it. That figure that looks like a puzzle piece is Piece. I know it doesn’t make any sense at all calling that piece a Piece. It’s weird, but that girl I knew before is weird enough to call her dog Doug.

She dropped the phone and heard it fall on the shards of broken glass on the floor. The atmosphere was suddenly calm. The world was like it has paused in its track. The moon that shone in the sky was now swallowed by darkness and no stars to prove it. Then the air was becoming cold, blowing on like it had a secret to tell. Thaddeus looked down at the man below. The body made the greenish-gold environment which was once appealing look like a bright red passage to hell as blood flowed from the blood like a river down the street. From distance, crows guffawed.

“Could he have noticed all this?” Just then, a memory flashed through my mind and soured my mood, killed my urges, and left me a broken girl again. I remembered Chris Westwood and how I was secretly dying for him, only for me to be used and dumped, and now my heart was creating a space for someone else just within a short period. I can’t believe this.

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.