The Indonesian Echo
A Five-Star Review: The Scars She Carried: A Love Awakened
By Pa Soon
★★★★★
A Ray of Hope in the Deepest Shadow
R.A. Marshall’s novel excerpt, The Scars She Carried: A Love Awakened, is a breathtaking and tautly written portrait of a woman’s desperate journey toward freedom. The author masterfully crafts the oppressive atmosphere of Elara’s life under the shadow of her abusive partner, Bartholomew. The narrative tension is palpable, making Elara’s meticulous, terrifying escape plan—from the silent communication with the mysterious Julian to the final, heart-stopping departure—an utterly riveting experience. What truly elevates this work is the nuanced exploration of hope: not a sudden rescue, but a slow, fragile awakening, embodied in the kind eyes of a deliveryman and the quiet, professional network of individuals dedicated to seeing the “stars behind the clouds.” This is more than a story of survival; it is a profound testament to the human spirit’s capacity for resilience. A triumphant, essential read.
A Part of a Daisy [Sample]
R. A. Marshall
Chapter 1: The Weight of Unsaid Words
The mornings were the worst. Not because of the lingering aches that made every movement a slow, deliberate act, but because of the silence that pressed down on Elara like the stone walls of the small, cheerless apartment she shared. The silence was always loudest after the noise—after the slamming of the door, the shouted words, and the sharp, visceral impact that left its signature in blooming shades of violet and yellow on her skin.
She moved to the kitchen, her bare feet silent on the cold linoleum. The small movements—boiling water, pouring the cheap instant coffee—were the only things that anchored her to the present, a fragile string of normalcy in a life defined by turmoil.
Bartholomew. That was the name of the man who occupied her life, her thoughts, and, often, her fear. He was a beast, as much in stature as in spirit. His hands, massive and calloused from a lifetime of hard, unforgiving labor, could be surprisingly tender when they first met hers, years ago. Now, they were instruments of a different kind of power. He didn’t just hurt her; he consumed her, absorbing her light until she felt like a hollow vessel, kept alive only by the faint, stubborn flicker of the memory of who she used to be.
The world outside the window was gray, mirroring the landscape of her soul. She stared out at the street, at the passing people who looked so free, so unaware of the private war raging inside the buildings they passed. It was a world she felt permanently exiled from.
Elara knew she should leave. Every rational thought screamed the urgency of escape. But love, or whatever dark, twisted facsimile of it held her captive, was a cunning jailer. It was woven through the fear, a thread of ‘what if’—What if he changes? What if he’s sorry? He always was, for a few hours, clutching her hand, his voice thick with a remorse that never lasted. It was this cyclical pattern—the rage, the damage, the brief, agonizing moment of tenderness—that kept her tethered.
This morning, the pain was centered just beneath her ribs, a dull throb that made her hesitant to take a full breath. She sipped her coffee, its scalding heat a temporary distraction. Today, she had to go to work. The bookstore, a dusty, beloved relic called “The Scriptorium,” was her sanctuary.
She finished dressing, choosing a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse—her wardrobe had subtly shifted over the years to a collection of strategic coverage. As she reached for her coat, there was a knock at the door, an unexpected sound that made her freeze. Bartholomew had left hours ago. Nobody ever knocked.
Hesitantly, she moved toward the door, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the bruised skin beneath her chest.