A Shattered World: A Novel

By Sydney Horne

• Addresses themes of grief, family trauma, and confidence
• Shares a journey of emotional development and self-esteem in a teen girl
• Teaches lessons of persevering and being yourself
• Features a family’s journey in the aftermath of losing a loved one to cancer
• Shows the reality of navigating toxic friendships
• Appeals to readers of Helena Fox’s How It Feels To Float

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan James Fiction
• Release date: Sep 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781636981000

Sydney Horne

Sydney Horne is a teenage author previously published in GirlStory Magazine. She has always had a passion for books, which evolved into a love for writing fiction and poetry. Sydney continues to refine her craft and recently was selected to attend the Young Writer’s Conferences at Sewanee University. She currently resides in Charlotte, NC with her family and two dogs, Yogi and Reeces. You can find more of her work at sydneyhornewriting.com

Book preview

Today

I don’t really know what is happening. It is one of those moments when you’re not fully aware of what’s going on around you. One thing that I was aware of a bit ago was all the noise. There was so much of it: the sobs of my family, the hushed whispers of the doctors, and the bustle of everyone outside the room, completely oblivious to the heartache that would soon tear apart my family. The only noise that is now missing is the beeping of those annoying machines.

Before, all I wanted was for the constant beeping to go away; now, I would do anything to get it back.

I want to escape. None of it feels real. How could she be gone?

I remember the day before our world was turned upside down. We were sitting on the beach, watching Luna as she bounded along the edge of the waves, barking at the frothy bubbles that attacked her oversized paws. Tiny droplets of water glistened in her black and tan fur. We laughed as the cool January wind whipped through our hair. It was peaceful there; it always was. My sister used to say it was so easy to get caught up in the hardships of the world that we all needed a place we could go to sort out our thoughts and remember all the things that keep us moving, day after day. I know one thing that motivated us both was family. But she is––was––my family. Is there really anything else, anyone else, to keep me going?

The pain of losing someone close to you, as my sister was to me, is numbing. I guess I knew this would happen from the beginning. It was just the stubborn side of me that thought she could survive. I tried to be strong for her as the cancer ravaged her body. I tried to tell her that everything would be OK and that soon, this would all be in the past, but deep down, I knew the truth. She knew the truth too. It was pointless, but neither of us wanted to admit it. Neither of us even had the strength to say it.

Despite how much pain she was in, I could tell she was happy. Some days, I would just sit and talk to her. I’d tell her about Luna. I would tell her about everything that happened each day in school. I would tell her every single little detail, from the moment I walked through the front doors of the school building each day to the moment I walked out of them, seven hours later.

I remember one of her harder days—when she didn’t have the energy to focus on my useless blabbing—because she had spent it all fighting through the pain that had kept her up the previous night. She confided in me she was feeling overwhelmed with all the needles, the noises, and the doctors asking so many questions. It was the first time I had ever seen my brave sister, the sister who was always filled with determination, look so defeated. She was tired and disheveled, that much was obvious to anyone. The ones who really knew her saw so much more than those who only saw her exterior. It was the day that the stubborn part of her gave up, the part that thought she would survive. It had hung by a thread since day one, growing thinner each day. Whatever pain she had gone through the night before, alone, had finally broken her resolve. I did my best to console her, but I didn’t know how to fix something like this.

I’m lucky you’re here. You’re helping me get through this, she answered as a tear rolled down her cheek. It was a brief moment of relief from the pain, a light piercing the darkness. And that’s all gone now.

Hannah and I are—were—fraternal twins, yet we looked and acted so differently, you wouldn’t have imagined we were even related. Hannah had always been more confident in standing up to people; I just went along with anything she did. I had always been quieter when it came to talking to others. She was a lot better at looking at the glass of life as half-full and was always positive and inspirational. I had always used art to express my emotions. Sometimes, I would paint a nice image, and she would help me come up with an inspirational quote to write on it. We even set up a pseudo-store in our front yard and sold our masterpieces to anyone who stopped by, mostly neighbors and friends that we had called.

We were always there for each other. I mean, we kind of had to be. We were twins! And we were best friends.

Except now . . . now I desperately need her here, and she’s gone.

Hannah! Eleanor! Mason! Time for breakfast! my mom yells. We rush down the stairs, giggling and almost tripping over Luna. She is only a puppy. Hannah and I are six years old, and our brother, Mason, is ten.

My mom places two plates in front of us, one piled high with bacon and eggs, the other with biscuits and cinnamon rolls. She always makes big breakfasts on Fridays to get us pumped for the last day of the school week. Hannah eats the bacon first, then the eggs and fruit—if mom cuts any up—and then the cinnamon rolls. She always says she is saving the best for last. I always tell her the eggs are the best because they are covered in melted, gooey cheese.

Come on, Ellie. Let’s go to the treehouse! Hannah says excitedly.

Hannah loves the treehouse, a place where she goes to relax.. She asks me to paint pictures on the walls for her, telling me I could create way better paintings than she can. My paintings are pretty good too. I mean, for a six-year-old.

————

Eleanor? my mom asks. Are you OK?

None of us are.

I’m fine, Mom, I say.

OK, well, I have to go to work. . . . Eleanor, please eat something, she implores as she strokes my cheek gently with her frail hands. She gathers her keys and her purse and is out the door before I can answer.

It has been a week since Hannah died. People say the pain of losing someone is supposed to go away over time, but for my family and me, the pain hasn’t even dulled.

My dad disappeared a few days ago, and he hasn’t come back yet. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going or how long he would be gone. I was about to fall asleep when I heard the car engine roar to life before he backed out of the driveway. The next morning, everyone woke up and found Dad gone, vanished without a note or anything. My mom said nothing, but I could tell it hurt her. She just walked upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom.

He used to be the one who was always keeping a smile on our faces. He was always there for us. But now? I don’t know who he is. Never mind where he is.

Mason, who is eighteen years old, walked with me to the beach last evening. As we strode along the shore, I looked up at him and found the wind messing up his curly, undercut hair. The sun glinted within his two-toned eyes and highlighting his pale freckles. Most people can’t tell that his eyes are different colors—mostly because his black hair makes his eyes look darker than they actually are. The only way you can tell is if you look at them in a bright light.

He gave me a weak smile, and we kept walking, only turning around when the sun started its descent.

I don’t want my family to turn out like so many of the families I have watched in the movies, where the dad drinks and the mom is crying all the time. My family is not like that . . . yet.

My mom doesn’t cry every second, but some nights, I can hear her sobs from her room where she hides, all alone because Dad is gone. Sometimes, I can hear Mason trying to comfort her. I wonder where Dad went. Is he at a place that calms him, like the treehouse does me? Or at the beach, which calmed Hannah? Or is he trying to escape the memories and not just the pain? I want him to come back so I can tell him there is no escaping the pain, that he’s just causing everyone more anguish. I know this because I have tried escaping it too, but everywhere I used to go to calm myself and sort out my thoughts, I see her there.

I went to school on Thursday to get my mind off Hannah, to use my homework as a distraction, but it only made things worse. Everybody is asking me if I am OK and if I want to talk, continuously reminding me of the one thing I am trying so desperately to forget. I ignore them all. I just keep walking down the halls and into and out of my classes. I can hear everyone’s hushed whispers as I pass them in the hallways, and I can feel their eyes staring at the back of my head. It makes my heart beat faster and my body tense up with everyone watching me like that. I do my best to keep my head down and walk as fast as I can to my next class.

The teachers don’t help, either. They say things like, I know what you’re going through; I had a friend pass away a few years ago or my brother died at war or something else. Those awkward talks always end with, If you need to talk, my door is always open. I despise the sympathetic glances. Ugh, sorry, but hard pass.

It’s now Friday, and I try to get out of going to school again, but my mom makes me go. So I trudge through another painful day of pitiful glances, and, of course, ignore those few people who think my answer to Are you OK? is going to differ from the answer I gave them yesterday. I am fine with eating alone at lunch. Or sitting by myself at Physical Activity. I’ll just read my book or something. And I swear, if one more stuck-up gossip girl comes up to me and asks if I want to hang out with them, I am going to lose it. I don’t want their pity invites. How come I only exist now that I don’t have my sister’s shadow to hide in?

By the time the final bell rings, my mouth is dry from having to say, I’m fine, thank you for asking because I can’t just say what I want, which is, You asked me that question last week, and my answer remains the same so BACK OFF! That would be rude. I understand they are trying to be polite, but unless I’m on fire, please leave me alone.

As I approach my house, I see my dad’s car in the driveway. My mind races, asking itself a billion questions I don’t know the answer to. Why did he leave for so long? Where did he go?

I cautiously walk through the side door, and Luna runs to greet me. My bookbag drops to the floor with a thud as I kneel and bury my face in Luna’s fur. She always makes me feel safe; she was the one that I could come home to for comfort while Hannah was in the hospital.

I walk up to my room, and Luna sulks behind me. She’s been different since Hannah died. It’s like she knows Hannah is gone for good. She’s getting better, though, slowly showing more energy. I wish I could walk it off like she does. I have homework to catch up on, but I promise myself that I’ll do it later as I hear the heavy footsteps of my dad coming up the stairs and stopping outside of my room. He knocks on the wood frame, but he doesn’t wait for me to respond before he barges in. He drags his feet across the carpet, and I take in how disheveled he looks. His hair is oily and uncombed, and the dark circles around his eyes almost make me feel sorry for him.

My dad slowly looks at the pictures of Hannah and me scattered on my furniture and walls as he makes his way over to my bed. He sits on the edge with a sigh, and I turn away from his stench. We sit there in silence for a while. Before I speak up and ask, Where were you? he takes a deep breath and slowly tears his eyes from the ground.

Clearing my head, he says as he glances at me and quickly