Title: FINDING MY FIGHT
Author: R.G. Corr
Genre: Romantic Suspense
About FINDING MY FIGHT:
A perfect marriage? A beautiful home? Things are not always as they seem.
To everyone they knew, Ginny’s life with Blake Daniels was perfect. When Blake’s job takes them away from home and the friends Ginny has known since childhood, things start to change. On their own, in an isolated house, the man who held Ginny up through her mother’s passing is no longer the kind, supportive man she thought she’d married. In his place now resides a cruel beast whose only desire is to control her. Ginny’s life as she knows it, becomes indelibly marked with every bruise he leaves on her, and every callous word he sends her way.
When the unthinkable happens, Ginny is forced to find the strength she needs to leave and rebuild her life without Blake. Yet nothing could have prepared her for what was still to come. Ginny believed the nightmare was over, but it was only just beginning. Her husband is back, and there’s only one reason he’s here.
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Exclusive Excerpt:I glance down to the faded and weathered-looking wood panels of the bench I’m sitting on. From a distance, you don’t notice the beaten, worn appearance. It’s only when you get closer you see the extent of the damage. The colour stain on the wood lifts in various places. One slat is cracked and brittle to the touch. It even feels damp underneath my legs due to the coldness of the day. It’s damaged, but it’s still here, providing what it promises. A respite.
Some would choose not to sit on this bench, instead preferring the modern shiny versions further down the road. Yet for me, this bench is a flicker of hope. Sitting here means I’m one step closer to talking to somebody. One step closer to proving that the situation I’m in is not normal or right.
My focus rests on the alley across the road where today I had hoped I would find the courage to walk. But uncertainty lingers in my heart and mind like a dead weight, holding me down.
To passers-by, you’d be forgiven for believing I possess courage. I appear well groomed and in control. How can I be anything else? Why would I want to admit that I’m ashamed of the person I’ve become? I’m so used to faking a smile that at one time, I wondered if it was fixed permanently on my face. Now I know it isn’t. My smile no longer presents itself freely. It’s displayed as an act. A performance.
My hands jitter in my lap, the only physical indication of the fear and uncertainty that racks my body. If I go in there, I admit I’m that person, that woman who allows herself to be beaten. Only allowing isn’t really the right term. I don’t give permission. I beg for him to stop. I plead like a helpless child. How can I still love him, when I hate what he does to me? With each word and every shock of pain, I fear the love I have for him is lessening and the hatred growing. But the loathing isn’t solely for him, it’s for me too.
Walking away from Blake requires a strength that I don’t hold. Take now. I’ve been here for over half an hour, only occasionally daring to glance at the building I should be walking into. I sit, surrounded by high-rise buildings and impressive monuments, emphasising how small and insignificant I truly am. So full of self-pity, Ginny. I curl my lip up at the truth of my thoughts.
Company arrives on the other side of the bench, surprising me. On the four times I’ve been here, I’ve not seen one person even come near the bench. I don’t look up to acknowledge whoever it is. Instead, I move even closer to the armrest on my right, increasing our distance and feeling that little bit safer with the wood by my side. I shift my attention to the brick built buildings in front of me. There are a number of offices, some shops, but it’s down the wide alley where my focus lies. A trail of shops and offices lead to an alcove with the blue door that holds my attention. It’s only just visible from where I’m sitting.
I clasp my hands together in my lap in a bid to cease the shaking, but the movement causes my sleeve to ride up slightly, and the edging of the bruise on my wrist comes into view. Immediately, I tug on my jacket pulling the cuffs into my palm. My cheeks heat with shame, I dip my head and retreat further into the back of the bench, hoping for whoever it is sitting near me, not to have seen.
About the Author:
R.G. Corr is a mum of three who has had an overactive imagination for many years. A discussion with a friend at a soft play area, amidst the noise and mayhem of toddlers, finally convinced her to put pen to paper and create her first novel.
R.G. lives in Nottinghamshire, England and although Sherwood Forest is just down the road, she prefers the sight and sounds of Holywell Bay in Cornwall to provide the inspiration she desires. It has become one of her most loved places.
When R.G. is not working or writing, you'll find her nose deep in her kindle swooning over her latest book boyfriend.