Trauma Stories Novels & Stories

She shrugged and Will’s eyebrows knitted deeper. “What kind of trauma?” “I don’t know, maybe it was watching my mom overdose on drugs at the age of three or watching my father die when I was nine, maybe it was watching my mother get dragged away by the police in front of my middle school or perhaps it was being beaten and threatened every day by my uncle. It could be anything, Will could even be almost being raped in the forest and watching a wolf rip three men to pieces to protect me.” She spoke so calmly, her voice barely over a whisper, yet Will was frozen.

"If we are here to get to know each other, I want to know your story. What no one knows just by looking at your photo. You don't have to tell me about your traumas, if you don't want to, I just want to get to know you better.” "I don't have any trauma," he said, raising his eyes to the sky once again, as he reflected and searched in his memory. "I was born in a neighboring city, and I have an older brother. My parents divorced when my mother discovered a betrayal, so we moved to the south. There I studied at a Catholic school, as you already know... And then when I turned eighteen I came back here, and started living with my father while I was in college. In the first years of the course I m

“I think that you have gone through a terrible trauma, one that nobody would be expected to handle well.” I snorted. “Not my first.” Dr. Sherman scribbled more notes on her pad. “Yes, you have certainly suffered through a lot of trauma over the past few months. Would you like to talk about it?” I wrapped my arms more tightly around my legs. “What about it?” “Well, it is the reason you are here. You have been through a lot of traumatic events. Sexual assault, stalking, kidnapping, vampiric attack, now a shooting.” I curled further into myself.

She questions me. I consider the question honestly. “Scary,” I admit. “But also… good. Like I chose this.” “That’s because you did,” she says, settling into her chair. “Tell me what made today feel possible.” I sit, adjusting the strap of Aiden’s carrier with one hand, grounding myself in the familiar weight. “I got tired of my world being so small,” I say. “Safe, but small.” She nods. “Safety and freedom are often in tension after trauma.”

I saw the depraved act with my own eyes, and that shit will be burned into my memory for as long as Antonellia draws breath. “How can that be? I didn’t fight him off. I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t stop him from hurting me. How is that strong?” she all but shouts at me, frustration or anger seemingly overtaking her embarrassment. It’s a step in the right direction, a step closer to acceptance and moving past this shitty chapter. I sound cold and hard, I know. I’ve seen some fucked up things, and been through some shit that should have broken me, but I have learned that dealing with trauma is not all that different than dealing with grief. The end goal is acceptance.

I died on a rainy day. The vibrant maple leaves, usually scattered across the mountainside, were nowhere to be seen because Conrad Reese couldn't wait any longer. I tumbled down the steps, blood pooling beneath me. But he wasn't satisfied. He shoved me down the stairs again and again, each time more forcefully. The pain was so intense that I could barely make a sound, but I still couldn't help but ask, "Why… are you doing this?" I didn't understand.

With trembling hands, I opened it. *My dearest Ava,* *If you're reading this, you're halfway through telling our story. You're tired. You're questioning whether anyone will care. You're wondering if this is self-indulgent or necessary.* *It's necessary.* *Not because our story is special – it's not. Millions of families have faced trauma, found healing, and built something beautiful from pain. What makes our story worth telling is that we documented it. We saved the receipts.* *You have proof that love multiplies. You have data showing that trauma can transform. You have fifty years of evidence that choosing love over fear actually works.*

When I was younger, I was a victim of human trafficking. It went on for years and years, the physical pain and emotional damage was unbearable. It took what felt like forever to escape from the hell that I was living in. Running away from the man who groomed me... Lazarus Landucci. And the man who tortured me... Vladimir Potter. My heart pounded against my chest. Memories flooding back to the surface, taking me back to where my story began. Right from when I was just a child... 10 lily Rewinding time.

"I'm here. You're here. It's not real." "It's real enough," I whispered, my heart a trapped bird against my ribs. "He's in there. He can hear. He can feel. And I don't know if that's justice or a horror show." Aiden was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I found someone. A trauma specialist. She works with first responders, victims of extended abuse. She's very good." I pulled away, the familiar resistance flaring. "I don't need—"

They were shaking again. In a few hours, I would not be just a face in a crowd. I would be a foot away from the man who had been making my pussy ache in my dreams, trapped in a closed room where the only thing between us was a stack of paper and the truth I was too terrified to tell. The collision was coming, and I was nowhere near ready.