Life Inside a Broken Egg

By Julia Byrne

Our heroine, Angela weaves a tale of tragedy and of triumph by piecing together her fragmented memories. We are taken on a journey that spans two generations, beginning with the violent life of her father and ending with the seedlings of a new generation. All is bared as the reader is brought into this dark world where tragedy knows no bounds, where rape is swept under the rug and lives are torn apart by the mere touch of a hand.
It is a tale of love and deception and the amazing bond that is shared between sisters; Angela and Faith. It is this bond that aids in their joint survival through years of pain and torture at the hands of those who claim to love them. This is not the typical tale of abuse. It is not a story of sympathy or of pity. It is one of strength and of decisions that no child should ever have to make and it is told in a way which is all encompassing and enveloping. It is the final glimpse within the tortured mind of the abused and the abuser as each becomes the other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julia Byrne
• Release date: Jul 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465916013

Julia Byrne

J. Byrne was born in Newfoundland, Canada but now currently resides in Texas with her husband, son and granddaughter. She has a Degree in Adult Education and two other degrees in ASL/English Interpeting. She has been writing since she was a young girl but this is her first full length work of fiction. Whilst the story is fiction, she was inspired by stories she had gathered over the years from young girls who had experienced similar events. She hopes that this work will bring about awareness of the cycle of abuse and also let young girls know that they are not alone. This book is dedicated to her family as they have always been there for her, no matter what and a special dedication to her sister for always loving her,even through the worst of times.

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Life Inside a Broken Egg

By Julia Byrne

Copyright 2011 Julia Byrne

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Life Inside a Broken Egg

Prologue

It came to me in a dream: those cold, dark hands, reaching out to me. They were callused and worn, and the fingers seemed to stretch on into eternity. But they were familiar; they were a part of me, an intertwined part of my very being. They were there in the beginning to touch and to soothe and to burn, and they will be there in the end as they always have been. They seem, to me, to be full of magic for the power contained within, shakes my very faith in the threads of humanity and questions my belief in myself. These are the dark hands of love and hate, fear and self-loathing. With one touch I can drift off into a dreamless sleep or into a night filled with horrors. Either way, they are there and they are as real to me as the morning sun or the brightness of a full moon. The hands that love. The hands that soothe. The hands that kill.

Chapter 1

As far back in my life as I can remember, there was you – A predominantly strong figure of enormous proportions who bathed us in love. You were a symbol of everything a man should and could be. In my eyes you were perfect and loving and gentle. You could do no wrong, harm no one and accomplish the impossible. I would have given my life gladly to save yours for you were my hero.

I lived my early years hidden in the shadows, blanketed by mounds of lies and deceit. I lied to myself and to others for how could someone else possibly listen if I couldn’t even tell myself the truth. My strong figure, my symbol of which a man should be, had a darker side that I chose to forget. Behind those sweet brown eyes and those dimpled cheeks was not the man I believed him to be. He was so much more, a man with a past more horrible than one could imagine, a man who was my father and where my life began.

My sister, however, saw things differently, saw things clearly. She always knew who he was and what he was and what he was capable of. She witnessed far too much violence and didn’t have the comfort of hiding in a secure, safe world like the one I had created for myself. She didn’t have the luxury of escaping reality for long periods of time. She faced the truth everyday while I fought my demons every night as I slept. I endured years of horror solely through my dreams. As for her, she lived and dreamt it. Her life was a living hell while at the same time mine didn’t even exist. She fought back while I cowered in silence and wished it all away. She was the strongest of us all, for she refused to endure. She wanted more and she fought for it. She wanted to live and eventually, in her own way, she did.

Chapter 2

My childhood memories are at best, scattered and at times confusing. They become clear when I close my eyes and fall off into sleep. This is when they haunt me and remind me of who I am, of who we all were and could still be. When the sun goes down and the shades are pulled and I am alone in my room, I remember. I can hear their voices and see their hands reaching for me. The screaming now lulls me to sleep much like a bedtime story or a music box. But back then, it was different, as was I. Sounds of my childhood echo within my mind and rips at my heart just as if I were still a scared little girl. There are some wounds that time cannot heal and no matter how hard we try not to change, life changes us indeed.

So for now, my life is a puzzle of stories. Each intertwined into the other to create the web that has become my past. While I am awake I remember little, but at night they come to me and they haunt me. I am older now but not so much wiser, just more tired and more at rest with the demons that call themselves my past. I cannot tell my story with eyes wide open for they must be closed for me to see the truth. It was in the darkness that all was revealed to me and it so it will be told in darkness. To begin my story at the beginning is impossible for I no longer know where my life began and theirs ended. I know I was born and that I lived and that here I am telling my tale but as for the sequence of events, I leave that to you. I can only tell the story as my mind and memory and dreams permit. It is told as clearly and as vaguely as I can remember. It is told in dreams. Fragments of a past that will haunt me forever but that has shaped me into the person that I am before you today. Believe what you wish, understand what you can, learn what you must, and take away from this a lesson. A lesson in love, and devotion and the ties that bind us all. From the Rocky Sea Shores of Newfoundland to the deepest oceans within my heart, I give you life.

********

As I close my eyes the dream comes to me again and I remember. I am in a room and it’s dark and all is quiet. I know I am young, but how old I cannot even hazard a guess. We go back to a time of innocence and a belief in Santa Claus, the earliest of each child’s dream and where my memories begin. I lay there very still and listen to the beating of my heart and to my sisters breathing. I listened for her thoughts and tried to imagine her dreams. I wondered what it was like to be inside of her mind, to think the same thoughts that she thought. She was so strong and yet never showed her fear. She sent me a doll once that she had made with her own two hands and had sewn with love. I slept with that doll until I was well past the age of childhood things. But it was my only connection with her. It was all that was left.

On that night in particular, everything was very quiet. The snow was gently making its way down my windowpane. The moon shown in slivers through the torn curtains that were nailed onto our window. We didn’t have too much but we had each other and that seemed to be all we needed or wanted at that time. Tonight was Christmas Eve, a night of joy and of dreams and of hope. Earlier that evening, we had sung carols and decorated the Christmas tree. My mother showed no signs of the toll her life had taken on her. We were a family, just like any other, getting ready for Christmas. It was a wonderful night. We danced and we sang and we played games in front of the tree. It’s lights twinkled and offered a new hope of what tomorrow would bring. After the festivities, we were tucked safely into our beds. I on the bottom bunk, my sister on the top. All was well in our home tonight. We were safe and warm and glowing in the aftermath of a warm, loving evening.

I held on to thoughts of our night together as I drifted off into slumber. Warmth overcame me and spread through my body, tingling my toes and bringing me deeper into sleep. Tomorrow would be wonderful. I drifted off into sleep with thoughts of an early morning awakening and Christmas gifts beneath the tree. A short while later I was awoken by a loud bang in the living room. I tiptoed out of my room and peeked around the corner to see my father in a drunken rage, pulling the decorations that we had so carefully made, off the tree. It seemed that nothing good could endure within these walls. As I stood there and watched with tears pouring down my cheeks I vaguely remember the scent of my sister, Faith and the feel of her arm as it went around my shoulders. She was always there for me. Even long after she had left, I could still feel her presence. We both crouched on the floor and watched the horror unfold before our eyes. It seems that in life, tragedy always gets our attention and the normal melodic humdrum of life is easily swept aside. We, as humans, have a compelling pull towards the dramatic; the sordid parts of life even though we strive for the best.

When all of the decorations were torn off the tree my father lowered his head as if her were saying a silent prayer, for who I could not imagine. He stayed that way for a few moments as if time had suddenly stood still for him. There was no movement or sound in the room as he stood there amidst the wreckage that we called our lives. Pieces of tinsel had stuck into his hair and on his clothes. His hands were scratched and bleeding from the shards of broken bulbs that had exploded beneath his grasp. I could not see his face as his head was bowed and his shoulder slumped as he stood there, unmoving. We held our breath as we crouched there in the doorway, waiting for the onslaught of anger that was sure to pour forth. As he raised his head and looked around the room, for a split second I thought I saw a look of regret in his eyes but that was quickly masked by his anger. From deep within his throat a sound began to rise and bubble its way upwards. His mouth opened and a scream like nothing I had ever heard came rushing out, and echoed throughout those walls. For the first time, I recognized pain in my father’s voice and in some strange way understood why he had done it. I could not yet put my thoughts into words for I was too young to completely comprehend what my heart already knew.

As my mind raced with all the possible reasons as to why my father would do such a thing, my mother came out of her room and made her way slowly towards him. She was a frail woman but had an inner strength that could not be surpassed. At times, she was quiet and gentle and loving. She would hold me in her arms and soothe away my aches and sorrow. She would coo to me that everything would be ok, that she would always be there for me. On the other hand, she never held my sister and this I never quite understood; although later in life I did gain a little perspective. It was too late, however, for the both of them. For my whole childhood, there was a wall between them that no amount of machinery could ever break through. On that night, she stood there with her bony hands placed on her hips. She was not a well kept woman as she rarely ate or bathed. Her hair hung in greasy lumps against her back and her face had shrunken in until all the bones were visible and it appeared as if the skin had been stretched taut to keep everything from falling out. Her pajamas were old and worn with holes along the side that she no longer cared to sew. She had given up on her life and existed only because God had not yet allowed her to leave this earth. But beneath that frail exterior was a woman of conviction and of strength; a strength that was only found when it came to protecting her children. With as much courage as she could muster, she entered the