Broken No More
Her father beat her. Beat her badly. Her mother drowned herself in gin. So she grew up on the streets—literally. She ate there, sometimes even slept there. Mockery followed her everywhere, and she learned to fight back. With her fists. Small but tough.
By the time she was grown, she was what her therapist—and later her psychiatrist—called a broken person. The pills she took did nothing to mend her. Dates? Out of the question. Who’d want someone so shattered?
Instead, she poured herself into work, volunteering at a charity that helped the homeless in London. She kept busy, leaving no room for anything else—just collapsing into bed each night in the flat she’d inherited. A place haunted by memories. She wanted to move, but couldn’t afford it. So she slept where the walls whispered of old pain.
Most nights, she lingered outside, chain-smoking until the nausea drowned her dread. Neighbours walking their dogs or taking out bins gave her a wide berth. They knew her reputation—odd, unstable.
That evening was no different.
She paced the courtyard, arguing with herself about going inside, when she bumped into a broad, hulking man. He was hunched forward, swearing violently. At his feet sat a tiny grey kitten.
Another curse, and he raised his boot.
Rage hit her like a tidal wave. The world blurred. She didn’t remember moving, but suddenly she was in front of him, her fist connecting with his forehead. A sharp crack.
He gasped, staggered, tried to swing back—
Too slow. Her left hook sent him sprawling. He hit the pavement with a groan loud enough to draw the whole courtyard.
She scooped up the kitten. The crowd stared—first at the fallen brute, then at the small woman cradling the animal.
“He was going to kick it,” she said, then turned and walked away.
No one helped him up. If anything, they were glad. The bloke was known for his temper. Later, ten bins’ worth of rubbish got dumped on him—stuff meant for the skip.
“Wait! Wait!” A lanky man with a scruffy terrier on a lead jogged after her. “That was incredible! But how weren’t you scared?”
For the first time, she wanted to explain. They sat on a bench by the stairwell.
“My doctor calls me broken,” she admitted.
Two hours later, she learned he was writing a thesis on domestic violence.
They talked until the kitten dozed in her lap and the neighbours dispersed. Before leaving, he said, “Broken people—they’re survivors. If they fight back, they’re not broken anymore. They become protectors. They stand up for those who can’t.”
That night, for the first time in years, the flat didn’t feel like a prison. The kitten purred beside her. And in her mind lingered the man’s eyes—full of admiration, curiosity, something new.
She wasn’t afraid anymore. Soon, he moved in. The terrier and kitten became friends.
And the broken woman? She wasn’t broken at all.