story description
tws: s/h, stalking, derealization, eating disorders, physical assault, transphobia, ableism, slur usage, and, generally, mental illness.
logline
transgender college student soren harlow battles dissociation and dark thoughts while navigating a treacherous journey through a strange mixture of trauma and the supernatural, led by a mysterious duo into dangerous spiritual territory.
behind the scenes
soren is the darker parts of me. he is my nightmares, my fears - but he is not only that. he is, of course, me. he inherits my silly nature, my playfulness. as well as this, he does have a mind of his own. as i write, i feel him and the other characters take over the story as if sentient beings. and maybe they are - just living inside my mind. i write to extend myself into words and share my being with others.
the key themes reflect my inner world. trauma, love, and mental health become prominent throughout the story; i can't help it, that's just how my brain works.
it is narrated in a dissociated, mocking tone from the main character, soren, as that is how he sees the world around him. that is his world - unreal and hilarious, as if he is playing a game. yet he falls into fits of psychotic panic throughout the novel, distorting the narration into a disorienting version of itself.
setting
with a broken wing is set in the modern day in a place something like my hometown.
protagonist
i have already touched on him a bit, but allow me to explain more about his character
he is obviously my favorite. appearance-wise, he is a short (5'3), transgender male with an androgynous appearance. he is in desperate need of a haircut and a clothes-shopping trip.
battling internal and external demons, he navigates life with a "fuck-this" attitude and tends to act like he can do whatever he want. he can't. his trauma eats at him and limits him more than he know. his rebellion is only a mask for his internal weakness - that shy, broken boy hidden underneath his skin.
he's queer and somewhere on the aroace spectrum.
supporting characters
the sillies. florencia and andrew are both assholes, just in their own special way. florencia likes to pretend to be an asshole but is, deep down, a weak little sweetheart with not really a hopeless romantic side, so to say, but a hopeless romantic being. she is weak for anyone she falls for. (see: soren. this is a grave mistake.) she's pansexual. andrew, on the other hand, simply does not care enough. he only cares about himself and sometimes florencia (she's the only person he can tolerate, for some unknown reason). he's aroace.
chapter one excerpt
Soren doesn’t know any better than to run, blinding himself, into danger. Without the flashing lights blaring a warning sound and painting his skin a tinted red, he’s nothing. And nothing is everything he cannot allow himself to be—he has to be the white flag and the one his audience applauds for and the tragedy itself.
So at the sight of this knife he finds on his pillow this evening, he’s ecstatic. There’s a glint of himself in the reflection; when he picks it up, he slides the flat side of it along his skin. Cold. He presses it there, in one spot, and the feeling fades.
Is it a threat? Hopefully.
Flick. It’s not sharp. Or maybe he’s doing it wrong. Does he need to press harder? Angle it differently? Is he supposed to saw into his skin?
Oh. There’s a blot of red. And it grows, slowly, until it stops. He turns his arm to the side and lets it shift—almost dripping down, but of course, it’s not deep enough. It’s not deep at all. Your average housecat can do better.
He bites his tongue so he doesn’t flinch and stop himself, but he goes over it again. And again. And again. The blood runs into a line, filling up the slit in his skin. When he turns his arm, it runs down. A drop of blood flicks onto the sheets.
It’s pretty. It makes him feel better. It’s that simple. There’s this dizzying tingling on his skin, a spinning sensation in his head, his heart hurting with how much it’s pounding. It’s… so good.
But this knife still sucks.
And now his hands are covered in blood and so is his phone, because he has it gripped in his bloodied hands. Dark red clusters together in a line coating the underside of his fingernails like dirt. He wipes his phone’s screen, smearing blood all over it.
( I’m coming after you. )
It made him laugh, honestly. So ridiculous. Sure, the prospect of a stalker sounds interesting to him—more than interesting, it’s amazing—but really? First of all, sending someone a text message is a terrible idea. That makes it incredibly easy for someone to track you! Should he try to track this person? No. That’s boring.
‘Maybe,’ he considers, ‘I should send a picture of the current state of my arm. That’d be so funny.’
That is so hilarious! Soren is the funniest person of all time. Of course. The idea is earth-shatteringly funny.
None of this is real anyway. This world around him… Well, he doesn’t know what it is, exactly, but he knows that it’s not real. Why else would this, all of this, (he can’t name it) be happening to him? A nightmare, maybe he’s stuck in some kind of limbo-liminal-space for some sins that he can’t possibly remember now. It doesn’t matter what it is. He knows how to get out.
But for now, he’s going to do whatever he thinks is the most interesting thing to do. He’s just testing this place.
( hope u are, babygirl )
No response. He’s staring at his ceiling now, trying to count the number of bumps on it. He is aware that there is no point.
There’s never a point. Anyway, Soren has to go to the grocery store, supermarket, whatever it’s called, even though it’s 7pm and he’s going to have an anxiety attack because it’s too late and…
Soren has to go to the grocery store.
It’s not a hard task—twenty minute walk (too late, too dark, he needs to wear all black and pretend he’s something he’s not so nothing happens to him) and… What does he need to get? He doesn’t deserve or need or want anything nope! Maybe he’ll just get… He needs something. Probably. He should get something, right? What should he get? Is he overthinking this? Yes. Does he care? Um… Yes, surprisingly. God. Okay, it’s fine; he can just… He can just go in and decide on the spot and it’ll be fine. How does he get to the grocery store? What does he need to wear? Does he have to put any effort into his outfit—no, he has to be unassuming—
Soren is going to the Grocery Store. It isn’t far. He knows the route. He just has to take some steps—onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten—until he’s there. He doesn't have anything to worry about. It’s not late. It’s only 7pm. That isn’t late. He'll be fine. It’s a short walk. Why does he worry about something bad happening when that’s the thing he's apparently chasing? A moth doesn’t fear the light. Does it?
He sees a moth. Its white petals are on display, fluttering against the air. There's a lamp turned on. The sky is darkening, but the lamp is a bright cream-white that the moth draws itself into, its strings pulled.
My strings contract. I crush the moth in the palm of my hand with the backs of my fingers and put its remnants in my pocket.