Precerpt: Nothing So Broken (Richards) - mayhem
Available now on pre-order! Nothing So Broken - war, memoir, more. Today we provide a precerpt (an excerpt from a book not yet published) -
-mayhem-
One
of the most frustrating things about Steven was also one of the most impressive
things about Steven. He was a gifted athlete.
I remember an autumn
afternoon, he had me pinned to the ground, sitting atop my chest, knees digging
into my arms as he pounded away. The blows struck my eyes and cheeks like
padded hammers while I squirmed and launched my hips upward, trying to buck him
off. When enough was enough, he jumped off me and back into the mayhem of some
made-up game involving a football. I stumbled toward the house, crying, certain
that Steven had knocked one my eyeballs out of its socket.
Kids were chasing other kids
around the yard, and my eye must have been lying on the grass somewhere. I
hoped nobody stepped on it because then I’d be blinded for life. I’d have to
wear a patch like Snake Plissken in Escape from New York. My father
wouldn’t let me watch the movie with him, said it was too violent, but I snuck
out of bed that night and peeked in from the darkened hallway and saw the
President’s severed finger wrapped in cloth. Not sure how I slept after that,
but I knew Snake would save the day. Maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad to wear an
eye patch.
Plus, the beating was
totally worth it. It was retribution for an airborne lariat where I tried to
decapitate Steven. I’d seen the move dozens of times on Saturday morning
wrestling with Rowdy Roddy Piper and the Iron Sheik, but Steven never saw it
coming that afternoon. He’d been focused on catching Johnny, who was scrambling
with the football in hand past the overgrown forsythia bushes toward the 80-foot,
high-tension wire tower. I leapt toward Steven as he gained on his brother, my
arm straight out to the side. The bend in my elbow cradled his throat, and our
momentums did the rest. Glorious.
Clean shots like that never
happened to my nemesis. He’d stiff-arm, twist, and duck his way out of any
solid hit. Even the older, stronger kids—Jeff and Neil Roberts, George Bott,
Danny Gilbert—had their hands full with him in fights and athletic
competitions. In a neighborhood overflowing with active boys, something about
him shone differently.
I’ll never forget the
football games. I’d be latched onto his ankle like a bear trap, trying to slow
him down and hoping a teammate would pop him as he dragged me toward the
end-zone. But it never happened. Bry, Johnny, Cousin Rob, and Jeff Gilbert
bounced off him like I did. Big Ray Gauthier was strong enough, but Big Ray was
slow. Steven wasn’t, even with me attached. That was the problem; he was just
as tall as the other big kids, but he was lean and fast. Big kids were supposed
to lumber.
Other sports invoked similar
frustration. He turned on fastballs and sat on curves in wiffle ball, sending
home runs sailing over our neighbor’s split-rail fence. He hustled singles into
doubles, doubles into triples, dodging and diving as we tried to hit him with
the ball to get him out. He’d often taunt us into throwing it at him and then
take off for extra bases when we missed. “For God’s sake, don’t throw it!” we’d
yell at each other.
Sniffling, I shuffled up to
my mother at the kitchen table. She was engrossed in conversation with Mrs.
Bott, and they both seemed happy and relaxed. A brief respite from their boys.
They turned to me, their
smiles disappearing, and my mother conducted her inspection; teeth intact, nose
straight, no blood.
But Mom, my eye!
She frowned and pulled me
closer.
“It’s just a little red,
honey,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” And she sent me outside, back into the
ring.
In the shadow of loss, a path to healing begins.
Chris Richards grew up in a small New England mill town, where life was tough and loyalty ran deep. At just 19, his world was shaken when a close friend was left permanently disabled by a devastating accident. At the same time, Chris’s father began to show troubling symptoms linked to his service in the Vietnam War—unseen wounds that would slowly unravel the man he once knew.
The weight of watching two people he loved unravel under the strain of trauma and physical decline left deep scars—ones Chris carried silently into adulthood. For years, he buried his grief and fear, never imagining that one day, facing his own crisis, he would turn to their stories for strength.
This powerful and moving memoir explores the enduring impact of trauma, the quiet power of resilience, and how even the most broken lives can become sources of inspiration. Born of hardship, shaped by loss, and redeemed through reflection, Chris’s story is a testament to the human spirit and the healing that can come from finally confronting the past.
Keywords:
New England memoir, Vietnam War legacy, trauma and healing memoir, coming-of-age true story, memoir about father and son, real-life story of resilience, personal story of grief and growth, emotional healing journey, memoir of small-town life, family trauma memoir, impact of war on families, veterans and PTSD family stories, intergenerational trauma, inspirational memoir about loss, adult child of a veteran, memoir set in a mill town, friendship and tragedy true story, memoir about overcoming fear and grief, how to heal from family trauma, memoir about growing up with a veteran parent, finding hope through personal crisis, true story of surviving emotional loss, lessons from a father's wartime wounds, memoir about friendship, trauma, and redemption
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