The Scene That Nearly Broke Me While Writing

There’s a scene in Jason that almost broke me.

It’s in Chapter One. The opening, actually.

It begins with a fist—blunt, fast, shattering.

Jason’s father hits him so hard he sees white. Blood splatters the wall. A boy’s silence becomes a battlefield, his body a canvas for his father’s rage. The pain isn’t new to him. It’s ritual. It’s control. And in that moment, Jason realizes something that no child should ever have to:

“My father doesn’t love me. He owns me.”

That line. That moment. That was the one that made me walk away from my laptop, shut the notebook, and cry in the hallway like I could see it myself.

Writing this book was never just about telling a story. It was about dragging trauma into the light. About naming the things we aren’t supposed to say out loud. Jason is fiction, yes—but the kind of fiction rooted in reality so raw it aches.

The first chapter is brutal. It’s unflinching. It’s not meant to be “easy” reading. It’s meant to make you feel the weight of what too many kids go through behind closed doors. It’s meant to show how survival doesn’t always look brave. Sometimes it looks like hiding behind your own ribs and praying the night passes.

I know this might sound intense, especially for a blog post. But I promised myself—and all the kids I wrote this story for—that I wouldn’t sugarcoat the truth.

Because Jason’s story isn’t about trauma. It’s about what happens after.

It's about rebuilding.

It's about finding people who love you—not for your potential, not for what you bring to the table—but just because you exist.

And it starts, for Jason, on the floor of a broken-down trailer, bleeding and still choosing to keep breathing.

If you’ve read the opening chapter, you already know: this isn’t just a book. It’s a gut-punch. A cry. A dare to believe in healing.

If you haven’t yet—buckle up.

You’ll meet a boy who thinks he’s beyond saving.

And then you’ll watch the world try to prove him wrong.

Alexis