Like shells on a rock: A short novel

By Margaret L. Miller

Although short, this novel is the result of several years of reflection. Years spent focusing on the core of my message: "There is always a possibility to escape bullying and violence".
I dare say that this little novel is a "coming of age" novel, because it demonstrates the evolutionary capacity of the protagonist, through trials, errors, and internal experiences, who through her emotions, her traumas, and her actions to survive a painful past, grows and gives strength both to herself and to others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Margaret Miller
• Release date: Jan 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9791222497839

Book preview

Miller, Margaret

Like shells on a rock

A short novel

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Table of contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The sun was beginning its descent, casting an orange glow through the high windows of Beatrice Thompson's office when the soft chime of her phone interrupted the silence. She leaned back in her chair, long brown hair spilling over her shoulders as she listened intently to the voice on the line. Her hand absentmindedly traced the edge of a photograph on her desk—a black and white image capturing a young version of herself with a curly blond-haired girl embracing her and ready for the pose.

Beatrice Thompson, she said with a tone that was both gentle and commanding. How can I help you today?

As she spoke, her gaze wandered to the diplomas lining the wall, each one a testament to her dedication, but mostly to the lives she'd intertwined with—lives she’d fought for in countless courtrooms. The last rays of daylight danced across the room, highlighting the meticulous organization of legal texts and case files that populated her shelves. Every detail of the room whispered of her commitment, from the neatly stacked papers to the numerous awards perched on a shelf near her law degree.

Of course, Beatrice said, scribbling notes onto a legal pad, her brow furrowing with concern. She hung up the phone, her mind immediately racing with strategies and statutes. Her clients weren’t just cases; they were people with stories that often echoed a familiar harshness. The memory of her past—the sharp sting of words and assaults, the cold isolation of being the target—fueled her empathy. She never viewed her role as just a job, but a redemption from injustice.

Tomorrow at ten then, she confirmed to herself, setting a reminder. Her movements were like a perfectly choreographed dance, every step and gesture executed with precision and grace. There was a fierce determination in her eyes; the constant drive towards careful planning guiding her every move. To her, there was no room for error or wasted effort, only a relentless pursuit of justice and success. She stood, stretching slightly, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on her like a familiar cloak.

Her fingers brushed against the photograph again, and for a moment, her reflection in the glass seemed to merge with one of the girls pictured within. They shared a look of determination etched by adversity, born from a common forge. Beatrice allowed herself a small smile. It wasn't pity she offered her clients—it was recognition, solidarity.

Make a difference, she whispered, the mantra echoing around the now-shadowed office. It was more than a goal; it was the core of who she was. Each case was another chance to tip the scales, to lend her strength where it was needed most.

With the onset of evening, the world outside began to quiet, but within Beatrice Thompson's mind, it was just quiet chaos – as a new case started to make a move in her life.

***

The morning light spilled through the blinds of Beatrice Thompson's office, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. She sat, poised and patient, like one used to wait. The door clicked open and in stepped Maria González.

Mrs. González, Beatrice said, rising to greet her latest client. Her hand extended as an unspoken pledge of alliance. Please, have a seat.

Maria's frame was slight, almost lost within the oversized gray sweater she clutched around herself like armor. Her face was framed by short, wavy black hair that looked like it had been recently and hastily cut. It mirrored the chaos that had consumed her life.

Thank you, Maria murmured, her voice carrying the tremor of one who has known fear intimately but refuses to let it be her defining trait. She settled into the chair across from Beatrice, feet planted firmly on the ground as if ready to flee or fight at a moment's notice.

Maria, I want you to know that you're not alone anymore. Beatrice's words were measured, each syllable crafted to bridge the chasm of distrust that trauma often left behind. What happened to you, what you did... it was self-defense. We'll make them see that.

Beatrice watched as Maria's hands twisted together in her lap, the knuckles whitening—a silent battle between hope and apprehension playing out within the confines of her own skin.

Every time he would come home, Maria began, the floodgates of memory creaking open, I didn't know which version of my husband – Liam – I'd face. The charming man I fell in love with, or the monster.

Monsters, Beatrice thought, have a way of wearing human masks. Her fingers tapped lightly against the file, betraying none of the anger simmering inside her, nor the resurfacing memories. She knew this dance—the public facade of the abuser, the private terror of the abused. It was a pattern etched deeply into the narrative of her career.

Yesterday, when he came at me... Maria's breath hitched, her eyes darting away, I couldn't let him hurt me again. Not again.

Maria, Beatrice said, leaning forward, her voice a low anchor amidst the storm of emotions. You survived. And that strength—that resilience—will be your testimony.

As Maria nodded, a fragile smile dared to trace her lips, hinting at the resolve hardening beneath her fear. Beatrice recognized that transformation, having seen it in countless clients before, and felt it within herself. Like the molting of a diamond-encrusted caterpillar, she shed the threads of victimhood and emerged, resilient and shining, a survivor.

Let's go over everything once more, Beatrice suggested, spreading out documents with meticulous care. Each paper was a piece of the puzzle, and she was determined to fit them together in defense of this woman who mirrored so many others she had vowed to protect.

Okay, agreed Maria, taking a deep breath as if drawing courage from the very air around her.

Your story matters, Beatrice affirmed, her conviction wrapping around Maria like a warm embrace. We'll make sure the world hears it.

***

The sun had descended behind the city skyline, casting long shadows across the walls of Beatrice Thompson's office. She stood at the window, her gaze fixed on the hustle and bustle below, but her mind was elsewhere.

Beatrice? Maria's voice cut through the silence, gentle yet tinged with urgency.

Sorry, Beatrice apologized, turning away from the window. Her brown hair fell in waves over her shoulders as she moved back to her desk, every strand seemingly aligned with purpose. I was just... thinking about our approach.

Is everything okay? The concern in Maria's dark eyes was unmistakable.

Everything's fine, Beatrice assured her, though the echoes of a childhood fraught with taunts and exclusion rang loudly in her ears. Just strategizing.

As she sat down, Beatrice’s fingers rapped against the polished mahogany surface—a staccato rhythm that matched her racing thoughts. Schoolyard's jeers had once reduced her to whispered