Broken by Megan Hart

I just finished Broken by Megan Hart. As with Hart’s first book, Dirty, I’d label this one a profound read that held no punches. Another brutally honest heroine that a small part of me wishes I hadn’t accompanied. That is the trouble with first person I think. It either misses its mark entirely, subjecting readers to distracting and gratuitous inner monologue, or it cuts right to the bone with razor sharp truthfulness. I’d put Linda Howard’s Drop Dead Gorgeous in the first category and Hart’s work in the second.

For me, Hart’s narrative is beyond compelling. She manages to draw readers into her heroine’s psyche and keep them there through a never-ending barrage of emotional confessions. Confessions delivered without prelude, some still rough and unvarnished, others with the sharp clarity of cut diamonds. Both with the power to wound. And still, we remain attached to the narrator, unable to judge or condemn. Therein lies Hart’s greatest talent.

Moral issues and questions aside, her characters suffer feelings we all recognize, legitimate hurts that speak to our own. And because Hart deftly avoids using those feelings to justify questionable actions, her characters appeal rather than repulse.

The upside is a moving read, one that stays with you long after you shelve the book. The downside is that Hart’s moments of truth can hit too close to home, startling emotions out of the reader that, in some cases, are better left dormant. I’d hazard a guess that everyone who says they cried through this book found one or more of those moments. I did.

The first was the scene of her massage—when she was overcome by the realization that no one touches her anymore. It brought to mind the latter months of my pregnancy, when everywhere I went folks pampered and fussed. Bestowing kindnesses that contrasted sharply with the emotional and verbal cruelty I was experiencing within the walls of my own home. After reading Broken, I resumed the task of preparing to move from said home. When cleaning out my medicine cabinet, I found a bottle of scented lotion I used religiously throughout my pregnancy. I threw it, and the last of my unwillingness to remember that time, in the garbage.

The next was Sadie’s belief that she had lost herself to her marriage, her husband and the events that shape their lives. I imagine there are quite a few women who will admit to feeling the same way, like they’ve forsaken their own needs for those of their partners and children. Same here. That medicine cabinet also held a couple of bottles of cheap perfume, reminding me that I gave up my $100-a-bottle scent years ago. In the name of saving money I think. An extravagance enjoyed by single women, not married folk with mortgages. A relatively small item, true, but still an indication of my blind acceptance of someone else’s priorities over my own. Threw those away too.

Finally, Hart acknowledged a truth that should probably have been accompanied by trumpets. “I know you can’t be lost if you know where you are.” Speaks for itself, doesn’t it? And begs the question, are you where you want to be? A bit more difficult than tossing old scents, but a worthy challenge nonetheless.