I can understand the confusion, but no, that’s not it.
Simply being an abused woman dosn’t render one a “broken girl”; the world is full of strong, capable, resilient women who have survived their personal hells and come out the other side as vibrant human beings. I wish them nothing but good fortune and blissful, symmetrically satisfying relationships all the days of their lives. I’m not writing for them.
Nor is abuse itself a defining factor. There are many roads that lead to Broken City —some I’m sure I’ve yet to see— and not all of them are twisted and dark. Girls often come to town by the most banal, well-traveled routes.
"Daddy ignored me." "Mommy was never satisfied with me." "No man has ever really cared about me." "I watched too much porn as a kid." "I fail at everything I try in life." "I will never feel pretty until I look like Mila Kunis." It goes on and on in that vein.
See, it’s not really about what a girl’s gone through to get here; it’s about how she reacts to it. It’s in her surrender to her own inadequacies, her cozy comfort with self-loathing, the masks she hides behind, and the inexplicable connection between her clit and her deepest shame.
So what am I really in to? Just look for a girl writhing naked in the jagged shards of her broken existence, luxuriating in her own wreckage. She’s one of mine.