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My Prison Without Bars: The Journey of a Damaged Woman to Someplace Normal

par Taylor Evan Fulks

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Sometimes the strongest manacles in this life are the bonds forged from painful memories of a past so horrific, that they shackle and incarcerate the very essence of one's soul...inevitably, the constraint is a life sentence. It's storming outside-I'm talkin' the kind of storm that produces the little red stripe at the bottom of the TV, flashing warnings of impending doom and destruction on a scale of Armageddon. Yet, aside from the frequent bomb blasts of thunder and techno-flashes of lightning, my hotel room is eerily quiet-almost deafeningly so. I lay prostrate on one of the two queen-size beds, arms and hands paralyzed from being trapped under my limp, heavy carcass, hypnotized and mesmerized by the slow seepage of blood spreading into the fibers of the duvet...it's my blood. This fact does not alarm me-yet, which that, in and of itself, tells me that all my pistons aren't firing correctly. My vision is impaired by half...meaning my right eye is swollen shut, and I don't really remember why or how it got that way at the moment. I am, on the other hand, well aware of the difficulty I'm having drawing a deep breath. With what little strength I have-God, my whole body hurts-I shift to my back and gasp! My clothes are torn and mutilated, draped across me in shreds like curtains in an old abandoned house-weathered and forgotten. For a moment that seems to stretch on forever, I am numb, taking in the macabre scenery that is my body-bites and bruises, blood and scratches, a hand-print on my hip, and a...Christ, what did he do to my breast? My brain begins to come back online, circuits flying through my head, some firing at random (work conference, restaurant, too much wine, storm...) while others are more concrete ( walking alone, man in the corridor by the stairwell, tied to the bed, hands on my throat...hands on me). Then the dream-my whole life in Technicolor flashing before my eyes. Was it a dream, or reality? Oh God...I'm either dead, or I will be soon. And what about the man? It's all becoming clearer now as my brain begins to re-boot. A ghost from my past-the bogey man, Frankenstein, and the monster from under my bed all rolled into my living, breathing, nightmare. Where is he? Did I kill him? Is he still in this room? Futilely, I try to rise up from the bed-oh God, I'm gonna be sick-then I think better of it. Surely he's gone now. There's no one in the room but me. I'm trying diligently to convince myself of this before full out hysterics kicks in. I carefully still my aching head, my single eye heavy with weariness and fatigue, scans the shadows on the walls and ceiling as they dance with the strobe beat of the lightning. I just need to rest for a minute, just a minute, then I'll have the strength to get up and call the police. Darkness surrounds me like a warm blanket in winter. My body is stiff and still as though the bed has been poured around me. The pain in my head and body has changed from a nauseating throb to a dull ache all over. I feel my whole body begin to succumb to sleep, the soothing abyss just waiting for me to fall over the edge into nothingness-that's when I feel the mattress dip violently and the vise-like hand grip my throat. This is going to get ugly.… (plus d'informations)
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3 sur 3
Could not stop reading this book.
What Taylor went through was tragic and horrific.
It shows abuse really can shape a person and affect their whole lives.
It is a tough read but do not let that put anyone off. It is very well written and a story that needed to be told.
Although some reviewers of this book have said they understood how the mother came to ignore what was going on, I could not. How can someone ignore, and by doing so condone, what was happening under their very nose. Much less when it is happening to their own child!
It did feel like I was reading a train wreck at times, as she seemed to go from one abusive relationship to another, but all the time I was really willing her to find her HEA.
A well written and necessary book.
( )
  WWDG | May 6, 2015 |
This is more than just an amazing story. It took a lot of courage for Ms Fulks to tell this story the way she did. I known that some have criticized her for being to graphic in her depictions. Well, child sexual abuse is graphic and sickening. It cannot be sugar-coated. This book will bring you to tears, and make you feel uneasy. I hope it does, because it is all too frighteningly real, and continues to happen in our communities each and every day. Ms Fulks' writing style is very earthy and to the point. I hope that her story will be read by many, and that many lives will be changed by it. If the cycle of abuse is stopped for just one victim, one family, then your book has been a success Taylor. Thanks again for your courage in putting this work together... ( )
  BrianDBenson | Feb 10, 2013 |
Reads Like A Shocking Horrific Memoir

My Prison Without Bars is a gripping tale of one woman who struggles to overcome childhood sexual abuse. Part psychological thriller, part realistic fiction, this story will pull at your heart while keeping you on the edge of your seat.

The storyline is one that will enlighten, horrify and even shock readers and the book does come with a warning that it is graphic and is intended for readers 18+.

The author has done an amazing job in her writing. It reads like a shocking memoir.

I truly enjoyed this book.

Highly Recommended.

Also, I just found out that the book was chosen as the 2013 Reader's Favorite International Book Award Gold Medal Winner for Realistic Fiction and was the 2013 Indie Reader’s Discovery Award 1st Place Winner!

Congrats to the author, Taylor Evan Fulks. You deserved the win!! ( )
Cet avis a été signalé par plusieurs utilisateurs comme abusant des conditions d'utilisation et n'est plus affiché (show).
  Amanda_E | Dec 5, 2013 |
3 sur 3
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Sometimes the strongest manacles in this life are the bonds forged from painful memories of a past so horrific, that they shackle and incarcerate the very essence of one's soul...inevitably, the constraint is a life sentence. It's storming outside-I'm talkin' the kind of storm that produces the little red stripe at the bottom of the TV, flashing warnings of impending doom and destruction on a scale of Armageddon. Yet, aside from the frequent bomb blasts of thunder and techno-flashes of lightning, my hotel room is eerily quiet-almost deafeningly so. I lay prostrate on one of the two queen-size beds, arms and hands paralyzed from being trapped under my limp, heavy carcass, hypnotized and mesmerized by the slow seepage of blood spreading into the fibers of the duvet...it's my blood. This fact does not alarm me-yet, which that, in and of itself, tells me that all my pistons aren't firing correctly. My vision is impaired by half...meaning my right eye is swollen shut, and I don't really remember why or how it got that way at the moment. I am, on the other hand, well aware of the difficulty I'm having drawing a deep breath. With what little strength I have-God, my whole body hurts-I shift to my back and gasp! My clothes are torn and mutilated, draped across me in shreds like curtains in an old abandoned house-weathered and forgotten. For a moment that seems to stretch on forever, I am numb, taking in the macabre scenery that is my body-bites and bruises, blood and scratches, a hand-print on my hip, and a...Christ, what did he do to my breast? My brain begins to come back online, circuits flying through my head, some firing at random (work conference, restaurant, too much wine, storm...) while others are more concrete ( walking alone, man in the corridor by the stairwell, tied to the bed, hands on my throat...hands on me). Then the dream-my whole life in Technicolor flashing before my eyes. Was it a dream, or reality? Oh God...I'm either dead, or I will be soon. And what about the man? It's all becoming clearer now as my brain begins to re-boot. A ghost from my past-the bogey man, Frankenstein, and the monster from under my bed all rolled into my living, breathing, nightmare. Where is he? Did I kill him? Is he still in this room? Futilely, I try to rise up from the bed-oh God, I'm gonna be sick-then I think better of it. Surely he's gone now. There's no one in the room but me. I'm trying diligently to convince myself of this before full out hysterics kicks in. I carefully still my aching head, my single eye heavy with weariness and fatigue, scans the shadows on the walls and ceiling as they dance with the strobe beat of the lightning. I just need to rest for a minute, just a minute, then I'll have the strength to get up and call the police. Darkness surrounds me like a warm blanket in winter. My body is stiff and still as though the bed has been poured around me. The pain in my head and body has changed from a nauseating throb to a dull ache all over. I feel my whole body begin to succumb to sleep, the soothing abyss just waiting for me to fall over the edge into nothingness-that's when I feel the mattress dip violently and the vise-like hand grip my throat. This is going to get ugly.

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