Island of Broken Dolls , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd - Scaar Egoni

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110 pages

English

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The book follows life stories of a group of semi-fictional characters, their success and their downfall. It tells the story of their struggle with undiagnosed mental health issues, addictions, abuse and much more. It is an account of their loss, their ability to fight back and find the reason to live again.

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Short story

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
Date de parution	28 février 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528968829
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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The Island of Broken Dolls

Scaar Egoni
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-02-28
The Island of Broken Dolls
About The Author Dedication Copyright Information © Prologue ***Bethany*** ***Joshua*** ***Sarah*** ***Alan*** ***Ronnie*** ***Liam*** ***Tyler*** ***Bethany II*** ***Abigail*** ***Sebastian*** ***Alan II*** ***Sarah II*** ***Tyler II*** ***Bethany III*** ***Liam II*** Epilogue
About The Author
Scaar Egoni, originally from Czech Republic, started writing her stories when she was about 15 years old. She always was fascinated by psychology and life stories of real people. That is why her book is inspired by her friends, their struggles and the ways they cope with mental health issues, abuse of many kind and life in general.
Dedication
For my friends and family who supported me and helped me to not become the next chapter of this book.
Copyright Information ©
Scaar Egoni (2020)
The right of Scaar Egoni to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528936743 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528968829 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Prologue
“The sickness destroys in one person the courage, in other fears and even the love of life.”
– Luc Clapiers, Marquis de Vauvenargues
When I started with this book, a central concept for me was the big unknown. Inspired by my friend who saw the potential in me. She saw in me a friend, a companion to whom she could confide, whether it was the fact that she bought new shoes or that she almost did not stop the bleeding when she cut too deep. She talked about her feelings with such openness that I sometimes did not believe it was based on reality.
Nikole N. voluntarily took her life in 2011 at the age of twenty-one years. At that time, I had known her for less than a year. She was a talented singer with a stunning voice, she was full of plans, but was also a very labile and frightened personality. She wanted to study law and was about to marry her boyfriend. She loved laughter and metal music. She had a lot of friends and a loving family who supported her. Still, it was not enough.
I still remember our conversation, which I later learned was the last one. Nicole had her head full of plans for the wedding, she wanted me to be her maid of honour. She was excited. Should I have sensed that something was wrong? I do not know. I will ask this question probably for the rest of my life.
After a week when she did not respond to any of my messages I wrote to her father, who wrote me back exactly this:
I regret to tell you that our daughter,
Nikole N., deliberately took her life Wednesday, March 23
It was a shock to me. I knew about her problems – self-harm, depression, bipolar disorder. I knew she was hospitalised several times with cut wrists, she used to call me when she was in the hospital under supervision. We had long, detailed conversations, I knew she had problems with her former boyfriend again, but her suicide was still a shock for me. Did it really happen? We will never laugh at inappropriate jokes, we will never get together for Chinese takeaway anymore.
I remember when I passed the news of her death to our professor, who was asking about her absence. With a stern expression, the professor eyed me and my friend and struck hard at us how it is possible that we are not sad about it. On the contrary, we smile. The only thing I could think of at that moment was how would Nicole react herself. She would not want us to feel sad. She would have a concert, a great celebration. I’m sure she does not want her existence to be associated with sadness and depression. She had enough of it through her life.
That day I swore to finish this book. This is my celebration of her life. Although, it was short and not always easy.
This book is inspired by my friends who struggle with their problems with their heads held up high, fighting until the last breath.
It’s a thanks and an expression of admiration for their strength and courage.
***Bethany***

Who could resist? Whose heart does not nearly stop at the sight of water breaking on the cliffs of the Scottish coast? The deafening waves. Freezing vapours that hover tens of meters above the ground. Even if crowds surrounded you, at this moment and right here, high above the raging water, it would be like if you were here alone. All the hustle and bustle of the world, the pressure and permanent presence of foreign ideas, everything is gone. It is all offset by the soothing silence. The only thing you can hear now are your own thoughts. Or rather, just one. You are alone here!
I love it here. Entire islands. I do not distinguish between Scots, Welsh, British or Irish. I know, for some people I may be contemptible because of it, but so what. It’s true!
Already as a young girl, I was madly in love with nature that surrounded me. Clean, extensive and beautiful. Something like that is quite rare. The English people are generally rare. My mother was a pureblood aristocrat. At least that’s what my father said about her. I also had a picture of her, but it eventually got destroyed and faded just as my memory of it and my mother in general. She died before I could remember little more than the line of her gooseneck and the typical, narrow aquiline nose. I do not remember anything more. My mother consisted of a gooseneck and an aquiline nose. I would like to be able to remember something more about her, but there is nothing more to say. She left when I was five years old and a year later, she died.
Father was something completely different. Even at first glance, it was obvious that he does not fit among the local elite. The very fact that he came from a long line of Australian landholders, was a thorn in the eye of many snobbish mistresses and pompous old men in the club. He did not have a pure bloodline. He was a mongrel. Outlander. Intruder.
My father was a returnee from the continent of outlaws. So it was called in high society. He came to study at Oxford and then he never returned. He found that here, he had greater possibilities than at home in Darwin. He started as an obedient clerk in a bank and over time and thanks to his ingenuity and ability to detect potential, both in people and investment, he had become one of the most respected investment advisors in London. And he was only thirty-four years old at the time; more so at that time, it was something impossible. Still he was an outlander, just with a perfect estimation. Because of money, many people are willing to overlook any flaws. He got into the clubs, into high society. He was invited to banquets, garden parties, polo matches and horse races. That’s how my father met my mother.
She was the daughter of one of those haughty elders, who boasted of their property and who loved nothing more than their dogs and horses. Except for money. Money then, as now, dominated the minds of many people. The Old Man, as my father used to call him, had something like a sixth sense about money. He felt their presence and could estimate their growth in the future. Only thing he could not predict was the collapse. But most of the rich do not foresee such a thing.
When Father, as a protégé of one of the many present bank owners, got to a banquet, Old Man already had in mind a specific future for him. More precisely, contract. Useful connection. Money to money. But he was not alone. Majority of the present gentlemen wanted to take advantage of Father’s potential in their favour. They did not want him to give them advices. They wanted to present his advices as their own. They wanted to own him. In the minds of many of them began to form a plan to lure Father into the family. They ruminated over nieces, daughters, sisters, and some, even over mothers. They wondered, who would be willing to marry a stranger. Unknown, but wealthy.
The Old Man, however, was quicker than any of them. He did not think that his daughter would do such a thing. She’ll have to do it. It did not matter what her opinion would be. He knew she will do it; his decision is crucial – it always has been. He is the head of the family and therefore, one should not contradict him. She has no choice. She’s old enough to contribute to the welfare of the family. She will marry, otherwise he will disinherit her, and regarding the level of comfort she is accustomed to, she would not survive a month. She knows as well as he does. She is well aware, that he would cut off all income and repudiate his daughter, without a blink of an eye. It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. He liked her very much. But he loved himself.
Coincidence played into his cards. Despite Mother’s stiffness and behaviour, which did not always warm people, my father really fell in love with her. The first time they met was at the opening of a new art gallery. When I was little, my father told me how they stood next to each other, they looked at paintings and did not say anything. It was the most exciting thirty minutes of silence he ever experienced. He was glancing sidelong at her clear-cut profile with a hard, dour look fixed on the work ahead. He observed how light from the overhead lighting reflected off her high forehead. The perseverance and enthusiasm that she put in a single look, fascinated him. Suddenly, he wanted to be the painting – the object of her interest. He yearned f