Breaking Point

Breaking Point is my sixth book, currently being written and hopefully in the shops by autumn. It’s atransformational fiction – solving & healing a spiritual murder mystery.

This story embarks on a journey of discovery, revealing how hidden traumas lodged deep within the body can be unearthed and transformed through innovative treatments.

Drawing upon the wisdom of over 100,000 orthodox treatments, this narrative entwines a spiritual essence, sharing my unique perspective on healing.

Through the compelling lives of fictional characters, I explain the process of identifying and addressing the root cause of your pain points with this distinctive healing approach.

I also have a book group on my Facebook pagewhere I release early drafts of ‘Breaking Point’ to seek constructive input. If you feel you would like to contribute and join my group, go to Facebook and search for ‘Nicky Snazell’ then request being a friend. Once you are accepted, you can ask to join the group.

If you would like to read the prologue to ‘Breaking Point’ then read on.

Breaking Point Prologue

Dear Reader,

Imagine you and I have time travelled together. We are standing together in the most beautiful garden on a balmy summers day, rose borders as far as the eye can see. The most immaculately trimmed lawns. Breathtaking old trees creaking in a gentle breeze, emitting wispy shadows as the sun weaves through the leaves. Gnarled, majestic Oaks to regal Ashes to elegant Silver Birch. In the near distance an iridescent lake with a shimmering green blue hue. It seemed to be a balmy early summer kind of day with fluffy white clouds and the sun shining through. I look down to see I am wearing a very pretty but faded long grey dress, a beautifully ironed crispy white apron with lace around the edges and old scuffed shoes.

You’ve noticed your clothes have changed too, haven’t you?

There is a rug spread out on the lawn and on it a simple basket full of sandwiches, cakes and homemade lemonade. There are three children close by. I know them as mine. Edward, my youngest at six, is playing with his box of alphabet bricks and chuckling to himself. Despite his health issues and missing a lot of school, he keeps learning as we teach him at home with the help of Nanny Nicole and Lady Jane, while I am kept busy housekeeping and cooking.

Edward loves playing and giggling with little Miss Penelope and she will be carried across soon to crawl on his rug to fill our day with joy.

His handsome father, Gwyn, the butler, ensures both his and Edwards little heart remains strong, swimming daily in the stately home pool. Sadly they share the same weak heart condition, caused by a genetic problem but also having personality’s overspilling with joy and loving kindness.

The sun is shining off Ted’s golden locks and I smiled at his little suntanned knees messing up his hidden slice of cake. I can hear the thump of a ball being thrown between his taller, short tempered and clever older brother John, who is ten and his strong minded but caring freckled- faced older sister Dorothy, who is eight. She attends the local school and helps with the chores. John is quite a handful and clearly getting irritated at his sister’s poor attempts at catching. He struggles to entertain his younger sister and brother but shines in his own right, bound for a successful career with his brilliant mind and boarding school education. Lord Charles is very kindly sending our eldest John to boarding school to gain a superb education. I am very proud.

As I look down, I see that Edward had mis-spelt  ‘lof u’ with his wooden blocks. I spell it out again, ‘I love you too.’

Dear Reader, could you ask John and Dot to keep an eye on Ted as Nanny hasn’t arrived yet and I need a rest before I return to the house to prepare the vegetables for dinner and serve the family afternoon tea and cakes.

I stretch out, loosen my large white apron and have a snooze in the suns warm rays.

My rest is shattered, I awake to the screech of brakes and a tragic scene before my eyes. It feels as if everything has shifted, changed. I sense a deep fear, a dreadful rolling sensation in my stomach.

Ahead of me, I see a still, lifeless little boy, my Edward, just by the bend in the road which weaves  down from the elegant stately home. No, no, no I scream. My beautiful child, I love him more than life itself. As I run to his motionless, still body I tell myself he that he must be asleep and he will wake up. My boy, my loving kind gentle, six year oldangel. His familiar little pale arms, outstretched. His curly, soft blonde hair and innocent cherub face with such long eyelashes over his closed eyes.

I had constantly dreaded the day he may collapse due to his heart condition, but nothing had prepared me for this.

Reader, can I take your hand for strength. Can you see this aura of blinding golden light around Edward?

I look down on his long dirty white socks, clean on this morning, his favourite little scruffy shirt, his torn teddy bear and his wooden cubes scattered.

There is something hauntingly familiar about this scene. As if I have been here before.

I know he’s not just asleep, a mother knows when her child is not breathing and dead. Yet I do not feel disconnected, as his shimmering soul is still here.

In my head I hear the words; “Mummy I can’t leave you.”

I'm suddenly aware of distant urgent shouts. I glance across towards the lake, as the dream shifts to a shimmering old vintage car, an exquisite red. I feel myself floating towards the car and as I get closer, I can see the water is starting to rise up inside the car. Fortunately, the car is not deep in the water but only three figures appear to be moving. Lady Jane, Lord James and Lord Charles, all screaming and crashing around as Lord James got his shoulder against the windscreen. Something feels very wrong, I can’tsense the presence of my Gwyn. I get closer, I gasp and tighten my grip on your hand, as I see that the driver, my darling husband, my soul mate, is slumped over the wheel echoing the stillness of our son.

I want to scream but there’s no voice inside me.

My children John and Dorothy were already by the car. The gardener, cap in hand, running in wellies, just shouts at me in terror.

I hear Dorothy start to scream as she spots her father.

I look around and the prettiest petit lady, Nicole, wearing her Nannies uniform and again an old fashioned starched white apron, runs towards me saying hold Penny, Lady Janes daughter. This toddler in a beautiful white dress and ringlets adores Edward. Nicole is sobbing as she rushes back to Ted’s lifeless body.

 As I turn around to glance through tears at my tiny boy, hugging Penny tight, I see that a shimmering light surrounds him and is glowing brighter, an amazing golden glow. It stays there, then a ghost like image of my little body sits up and his cherub like, tear stained face looks towards me and says “you're next.”

“You too will be killed Mummy unless I stay with you and together we can save another soul. I will protect you, for I’m your guardian Angel and will always be in your heart, never far away and I shall pass over with you into your next life.”

I see this glow, this faint outline of my son, move over me and in me and I feel a deep sense of love and connection. The sense of deep loss goes. Just the grief for his physical presence remains as a dagger like pain. I feel his protection, love, and an eternal bond that transcends physical existence.

I wake up and I'm back in my bedroom again in 2024, damp with perspiration, bed clothes on the floor, my eyes wet with tears and my throat dry from screaming.

It’s nothing new to me to have dreams about past lives, but this recent reoccurring dream is now every night. It is getting tedious.

I know something is a foot.

Do you ever dream like this dear reader?

Can you join me in unravelling this mystery of who took the lives of this son and father and who now threatens mine?

If I may ask, are you happy to help me with this dilemma?

Would you come on a healing journey with me, to peer through the lens of my characters?

I was born with a secret gift beyond healing, a kind of telepathy that connects me to those both present and past, or rather passed. A sixth sense. At times conveying strong messages through dreams and visions.

I must say, I have never had such a repetitive dream. I was nearly reaching breaking point, on the brink of despair with this unrelenting nightmare returning night after night. Especially at such a profoundly inconvenient time, as I had been writing a book about the ramifications of the Pandemic and the surge for virtual medical consults.  It appears destinyhad spoken and told me to rip that book up and rewrite a new version. The universe had chosen a different narrative for me to explore with you. It seems I am to write a different book so I must trust the time must be right to do this.

Blackie, my rescue cat was visibly irked. As a streetwise cat, he saw me as a soft touch, perceiving my soft hearted nature and had soon exchanged my heated greenhouse with its cozy cat basket for the house and bed.

His sleep had been disturbed yet again and he needed to express his frustration, so he scratched up the bed and carpet again.

Then went straight under the duvet.

I gave myself a shake which sent Blackie flying into an unintended orbit. I told myself to get a grip, to get showered, grab a cup of earl grey tea and get to my clinic, as there would be a list of folks waiting for me with hidden pain to seek out and kill.