The Break of Dawn, page 1
Table of Contents
A NineStar Press Publication
The Break of Dawn
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Coming Soon from Eule Grey
Connect with NineStar Press
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
The Break of Dawn
ISBN: 978-1-64890-859-0
© 2025 Eule Grey
Cover Art © 2025 Melody Pond
Edited by Elizabetta McKay
Published in April 2025 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains references to drugs, crime, and prisons; references to the social care system; off-page childhood fire; loneliness, anxiety, and mental health issues.
The Break of Dawn
Eule Grey
To those who haven’t yet had the opportunity to shine.
For “Cora” and “Sky,” with love.
EASTER MONDAY
For the attention of the prison governor.
Dear Miss Holmes,
You’ve already heard about what happened with the egg—it’s all over the media. We received your congratulatory flowers this morning. Thank you!
First of all, I apologise for not writing before. You asked me to let you know about my journey after we parted. I hadn’t forgotten, but there wasn’t much to say up until now.
Anyway. Here’s the story I’ve wanted to tell since I was a little girl. The ending is very poetic, or whatever.
Simply: I shattered on Easter Sunday at the break of dawn.
Yes, you read it right—I shattered on Easter Sunday at the break of dawn.
Lol! I wish I could see your face. No doubt you’re raising an eyebrow at my audacity, Miss, and I don’t blame you. Shattered, indeed.
It happened like this… You know how a chocolate egg explodes when you find a weak spot and poke until the pressure becomes too much for it to bear? The egg cracks; the pieces fall to the sides, and then you find what’s been hiding inside all along.
Have I lost you yet, Miss? Stay along. It’ll be worth the wait. I promise.
The chocolate barriers surrounding me came from life’s hard knocks. I truly believed my forever shield would protect me, whatever else had failed. In a way, it did, until Easter Sunday, when my ‘egg’ cracked and fell into pieces, scattering around my feet and ‘dandelioning’ into the breeze. I left it behind and stepped into the light, shivering and bawling, as raw as a newborn chick with ruffled feathers.
Sadly, there was no chocolate. Not a single piece. Gutting, right? Actually, she and I were so starving afterwards that we ate a double breakfast each before giggling awkwardly at the press. She had stains on her jeans, and I had mud on my nose.
Onwards. My shattering was devastating and catastrophic, yes. It wasn’t the end of me, though, so don’t worry. I crawled from the wreckage, new and different from what I’d been before. It’s up to you to decide whether I’ve become a better model. She says yes, and as we both know, she’s nearly always right.
Just read the story.
Ex-inmate number: 675342
Chapter One
FEBRUARY 1
It started with a shout.
“Richards! Gov’s office.”
The yell left a deafening silence in the dining hall. Chatter ceased, the insistent bang-bang of doors stopped, and even the pitter-patter of rain on the windows faded as if it knew that a shout from Miss Holmes always signalled terrible news, and especially for me—my prison release date was mere months away.
Potential crimes flashed through my mind. Had I left a mess in the kitchen during my shift? Did I piss someone off? Had my sentence been lengthened due to a technical hitch?
It wouldn’t be the first time they’d messed up the dates. Three sentences ago, a fight led to six additional weeks on the wing. Gah. The incident hadn’t been my fault. When someone insulted me, I fought back. If you didn’t stand up for yourself, you’d end up on the floor with a broken nose.
When the yell settled, the women gleefully nudged one another, glad to see me in trouble—I wasn’t popular.
My roommate, Jenny, tugged insistently at my standard prison-grey sleeve. “Cora. You better go. She sounds pissed.”
We exchanged worried looks. I stood as if to head to the office but legged it to our room instead, my stomach clenching about the bottle of hooch brewing beneath my bed. Jenny and I had started the brew a few weeks before. I’d reckoned we could celebrate my release with a few drinks. After eight months of sharing a cell, we’d grown pretty close. As close as I allowed people, anyway, which meant a chasm the size of a planet crouched between us. We were very different. Jenny carelessly revealed every facet of her life as we lay in our beds, whereas I shared bare essentials, such as my favourite brand of chocolate. Stuffed animals covered her bed while mine was bare. Enough said.
The hooch was not the problem. Bubbling quietly and consistently, our concoction hadn’t been discovered. Hooch constituted a minor offence anyway. What the hell else had I done?
The officer shouted again, more aggressively. “Richards! Gov’s office.”
The tone of her voice pissed me off. I wouldn’t go without a fight. Yeah, I should’ve accepted defeat and walked to the office with a sorry expression. Only a spanner with a death wish as strong as the undead would have ignored a call from the governor. I didn’t say sorry or play nice. Thirty-two was too old to change the habits of a lifetime.
Jenny thundered into our cell, banging the door behind her. “Did someone snitch? You better go before you get a warning.” At forty, she was serving her first sentence, naïve as a baby. Jenny still believed the prison rules existed to protect us, bless her cotton socks.
I made myself comfy on the bed. “Nope. Miss Snotty Holmes will have to come and fetch me.”
Years of practice in front of a mirror hadn’t been wasted. I could steel my face into an impenetrable fortress without much effort. Nobody saw the real me, the kid who’d cried during beatings and hoped her momma would visit at the children’s home over Christmas time.
Needless to say, my weak years were a very long time ago.
Jenny adopted her melting-biscuit look. She was pretty, with an expressive face that hid nothing. My helpful lessons about concealing one’s feelings hadn’t done anything for her. She cried or shouted wilfully, drawing attention, revealing weaknesses and vulnerabilities she should’ve kept hidden. I’d probably have demanded a new cellmate months ago if she wasn’t so kind. Oh, I didn’t like her—god forbid. Jenny was inoffensive to live with. Like and dislike had become irrelevant feelings to me. But she never gave up trying to improve or save me, the poor woman.
Jenny hovered at my bedside, looking like the apocalypse was coming, bristling with kindness. “Go and see what Miss wants? Maybe it’s good news. You know they’ve been handing out certificates from education this week? You did well in your exams.” She nodded encouragingly as if I were a silly kid needing a hug rather than a tough bitch who could cope with any amount of trouble. Bring it on.
She lunged. I held my breath, willing her not to touch. Jenny had a crush on me. It wasn’t unusual. Most women inside welcomed a ‘special relationship’ with a roommate. Not me. Jenny had attempted many touchy-feely incidents over the months. Obviously, I’d ignored them all. Whether hand-holding or hair brushing, every contact was disgusting to me. Why would I welcome another woman’s baggage on top of my own? No. It was better to be alone than abandoned. Hugs equalled pain. The end.
Jenny attempted a sudden, unexpected hug. “Aww, babe.”
I held up a practised iron fist. “Don’t touch me and never call me babe.” It was laughable and sad how she shrank back, believing I would hurt her. I never would. Jenny might be a nuisance, but she didn’t deserve or need a slap, only a little reminder now and then about boundaries.
She abruptly drew her hand back. “I just wanted—” She sounded wounded, almost tearful.
The grief in her eyes was too much. I closed my eyes.
“Yeah, well, don’t tell me because I’m as interested as a cardboard box would be. I’m having a nap if anyone asks.”
It was a relief to shut her out. Why women wanted to be special, I’d never understand. Yuck.
I began silently counting. At six hundred, a stern voice broke my concentration.
“Didn’t you hear? The gov wants you in her office.”
I swung my legs off my bed and crammed cold feet into my shoes. “I didn’t hear, Miss. On my way.”
What had been gained from the extra few moments alone? Even I didn’t understand myself. Maybe it was part of my nature
Jenny watched me silently and reproachfully. As I passed her, I stuck out my tongue. She rolled her eyes.
The corridors rang with noise again. Wolf whistles and lewd comments accompanied my saunter to the office, though I didn’t notice or care. Yeah, I’d made a few enemies during the sentence, but nothing too troublesome. Most women knew me well enough to leave me alone, which was exactly how I liked things.
Still, my hands trembled a little when I reached the office, and cold sweat might’ve broken out on my forehead. I silently explained the irritation as a physical response due to a muscle cramp, not nerves. It didn’t matter what an insignificant prison governor said. If she lengthened my sentence, I’d twist her words until they became positive. Nobody would break me, not anymore. The end.
Beneath my Terminator exterior, however, a weakness had started to spread. It had begun ages ago, maybe even before the sentence. I was tired of the same old tricks. Jenny’s crafty niceness had only made things worse.
To combat my fear, I knocked a little too loudly on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Miss Holmes had called me, not the other way around. Why should I grovel? “You wanted to see me. Can you get a move on because I’ve got class in ten.”
Miss Holmes raised one manicured eyebrow at my entrance. Cool blue eyes traversed my prison-grey jumpsuit, resting on my stoney face. “I see the social skills classes are really paying off.”
To give the governor her due, she had spirit and a dry sense of humour. In different circumstances, I might well have liked her on an intellectual level. Of course, I’d also enjoyed the odd daydream about her. However, since sexual desire was merely an animalistic urge, such fancies didn’t worry me at all. Sex didn’t feature in my life anymore—I’d learned to expel it, along with extraneous emotions and germs.
Still, I played ball, nodding like a Dickens character, pretending to touch the tip of a cap. “Afternoon, Miss. I’m at your service.”
Some staff would’ve handed me a warning for my ‘joke’. Miss Holmes didn’t bat an eyelid. Maybe her unflappable attitude was why I played up to her. She’d always seen through my armour, not that I’d have admitted it. According to the women, the gov had worked at the prison for thirty years, so she was wise to all our tricks and games.
She waited until I’d sat down before speaking, watching me with all-seeing eyes. Her scrutiny didn’t bother me in the slightest. If I couldn’t decide whether to sit cross-legged or not, my indecision was due to discomfort, not anxiety. Prison chairs were uncomfortable. The end.
Finally, she smiled. “I’m about to offer you an exciting opportunity—”
I couldn’t help myself. “I’m sorry, Miss, I’m not up to oral. All the chafing would set off my cranky knee, not to mention my tongue ulcer.”
Knowing I’d gone too far, I poked out my tongue to reveal an imaginary ulcer. Honestly, even I didn’t understand why I couldn’t shut up and listen sometimes.
Miss Holmes tapped the table with an expensive pen I could sell down the pub for a tenner. “Careful.”
I conceded with an apologetic expression usually reserved for the court. “Sorry, Miss. Point taken.”
She read aloud from what looked like an education report: “Cora shows real talent in her artistic endeavours. With encouragement and support, she could gain a place at an art college.”
Miss Holmes searched my face for signs of weakness.
So, Jenny was right. Trouble wasn’t awaiting me after all, only a congratulatory certificate. To be honest, I was disappointed. What did I care about a stupid piece of paper offering nothing tangible? No college would accept someone like me. Even if they did, I couldn’t pay for a course. Did Miss Holmes think an ex-con could leave prison, waltz into college with all the posh kids, and sit down to lessons? Laughable.
Her stupidity made me vicious. What the hell did the governor expect—tears and gratitude?
“Riiiiiiiiight.” I stretched the word out so it lasted long enough for the glimmer of anger simmering inside me to grow into a beast. “Can I go now?”
Spitefully, I hoped she’d be disappointed, too, though obviously, after the many setbacks of my life, her disappointment wouldn’t exceed mine. No doubt she’d been planning on using me as a case study. Bad girl turned good. Pathetic.
Miss Holmes had surprised me before, and she would again. Instead of sending me packing, she opened another file and produced more papers.
“There’s more.” She cleared her throat, perhaps nervously. “Artist’s assistant wanted for a bold sculpture project. Must be willing to live in digs for two months until completion at Easter. An all-hands-on-deck attitude is required. Good wages and the chance of ongoing work. The artist welcomes ex-cons and other applicants who haven’t had the opportunity to shine.”
I was too surprised to be sarcastic. “For real?”
I leaned across the table for a better look, forgetting the unbreakable rule of distance. Stupid and weak.
The governor slid the advert across, brushing her fingers against mine, the physical contact a shock. “There’s better and more. Have a look if you’re interested. Tell me if you want the rest.”
The bitch. I’d have to ask for more rather than pretend I couldn’t give a damn.
I mean, what was I supposed to do? Those ‘who haven’t had the opportunity to shine.’ The statement stuck in my throat like a concrete boulder, causing friction and reflux no matter what I did, initiating a domino effect. An ache started in my little toe and moved up my leg, across my stomach and chest, where it caused an unfamiliar sensation. What the hell?
It should’ve been the end.
I should’ve walked away instead of arguing. “It’s lies. Not real. Someone having a laugh—poking fun at the most vulnerable members of society like me.”
Straight away, I felt better. The advert was a load of rubbish. Maybe Miss Holmes had written it to wind me up, though mockery wasn’t typically her style.
A snort erupted from the governor. She shook her irritating head with an amused expression I’d have liked to hate but couldn’t. “Nope, try again, and don’t be so predictable. I’ve met the artist in question. She’s as real as you.”
As real as me… Since when had I been real? If the advert hadn’t already hypnotised me, I might have argued in earnest instead of fawning like a puppy dog. “Oh.”
Then she went for the kill. “I can see you’re interested. Reread the advert before saying something you’ll regret.”
For god’s sake. She knew me better than I did. Normally, I’d have offered hundreds of reasons why such projects weren’t worth bothering with; however, I couldn’t think of a single one. The sad truth was I loved art and always had. Pencils, paint, paper, and clay were the breath in my lungs, even in prison with limited supplies. Art wasn’t only escapism to me, though obviously, dreaming was part of the charm. It had become a necessary activity, calming my head, making life exciting, instead of bearable. What I loved best was sculpture—strange art dominating the sky and world, suggesting ideas and asking questions from nebulous shapes, materials, and forms without justification. Perhaps it was the sheer size that so affected me? In a book I’d found in the prison library, a woman gazed up at a Henry Moore piece as big as a bus. Instead of making me feel insignificant, the image had stuck with me for years, seeding inside me in a way people did not.
In my wildest fantasies about being born to a different family, I dreamt of a safe childhood surrounded by family who hadn’t sold me drugs. If only.
Miss Holmes broke into my daydream with soft words. “Are you all right, Cora?
She spoke a little louder. “It. Is. Okay to accept the offer. You don’t always need to fight. Be kinder to yourself. You’re ready for this chance—your drug tests have been clean since you arrived here eighteen months ago. It’s time to move on.”
Not fair. Not fair at all. ‘All right’? I hadn’t been all right since I was four years old. “I’m fine,” I snapped. “Not interested. At all.”
The ache in my throat turned into a nuisance. I choked and tried to cough it up. Another ache started in the chest hole where a heart should’ve sat.
