Unbroken Author Novels & Stories

I sat down on the living room floor, right in the middle of it all, and opened the envelope. Inside were photos of Noah. Pictures his school had mailed. His soccer games. His birthday. His quiet smile. I touched his face with my fingertips and felt a sob catch in my throat. So much time had been lost. To men who lied. To women who envied. To wars I didn’t start but had to finish. For what? For survival? For pride? Or because I couldn’t bear to be seen as the woman who got broken and stayed broken? I don’t know how long I stayed there.

The enormity of my actions and the resulting grief cast a shadow over my soul, and I swore that I would never again allow myself to love or be loved. As I ran, the memories of my mother's gentle touch and my sister's infectious laughter faded into the distance, replaced by the overwhelming guilt and shame that would come to define my existence. At that moment, I became Jason the Broken, a man forever haunted by the tragic consequences of a single, devastating night.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, and looked at my reflection. Puffy eyes. Pale skin. My lips were cracked and dry. I looked like someone who’d been run over by life and then reversed on for good measure. I didn’t bother with makeup. No point pretending I had it together. Downstairs, the house felt like a shell. My house. The one Damian and I bought after everything I’ve been through. And now here I was, being broken all over again. I made coffee, not because I wanted it, but because it was routine. I needed something normal this morning. Something to hold on to. I didn’t even drink it. Just held the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers.

Fuck it hurts to breathe. "I'm fine, just a few broken ribs this time. You know I can't fight back. The punishment will be worse than the beating so I'll take the latter. Can we just head to my house?" My voice is just barely above a whisper. I feel a hand grab my arm and I panic thinking it's Maximus so I rip my arm away which wasn't the best decision. The second I pulled my arm away a fourth broken rib makes itself known.

A line from a poem whose title seemed fuzzy in his head. Without pausing to mull over what to do next, Thaddeus turned and ran. With one swift movement, he barged into one of the dumpsters and nearly spilled out its contents. He would stand and run, unapologetic, but it was a little too late, Mathew and Mark were nearly all over him. Rounding one of the trash lumps, he squeezed himself through the gate entrance of what used to be an old bar. He kept sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him, the sweat dripping off him as he tried to restrain his fear was cold, it took all his energy to draw air into his lungs, trying to get as far away from where the other boys could reach him.

I answer him with the only way I can as I stand on my toes and press my lips against his. Three months later. Breaking Through The Darkness has reached 20 million copies sold worldwide. It embodies the life of a non-fiction author, Julie Saint Matthews and her struggle with depression and loss.

It will be a weapon that I can use in dealing with the coming trials and will remind me that I can survive no matter what. I will leave this chapter of my life and be ready to face another stage. As a mother, child, sister, and friend who will continue to fight the challenges of life. The woman who gets hurt but still fighting. I am HAILEY HIAN AMARANTH, The Broken who choose to be The Martyr for the man I truly love.

I'd worn the black and stood at the pyre and felt nothing but a strange, guilty quiet — like a door somewhere in the house had finally stopped slamming. I had spent my whole life deciding to be his opposite. When he died, I started running Dark Moon a different way. Maybe that was half of why I'd carried Nora and Lily out of that house at all. I'd looked at the two of them, the older one shielding the younger with her own thin body, and I'd seen something I recognized from a long way down. "I like them already," Olivia said. "I'd like to talk to her. To both of them."

Books that offered shelter to those still lost in the storm. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the sweet air of that late afternoon, feeling the warmth of Luka, the solidity of Elias, and the heartbeat of Zion against her back. She thought of the seventeen-year-old girl who had walked into that bookstore on a rainy afternoon, seeking refuge in someone else’s pages because she still didn’t know that one day she would have her own to offer. She thought of the broken woman she had been, of the painful but necessary crossing, of the moments when she had almost given up.

Unbroken. “This,” I rasped, my voice low, steady, dangerous, “is not weakness. Thank you for showing me what I am capable of,” I said with a bloody smirk. The air itself seemed to shudder at my words. Leaves rustled though no wind blew. The men glanced at each other, nervous now, their bravado cracking. Something was waking inside me. Something I didn’t understand. Something I couldn’t control. And I loved it because it was mine. And it was hungry and I was aching to feed it.