Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

When you die, you become perfect.

People got such a charge from seeing their names in print. Proof of existence. I could picture a squabble of ghosts ripping through piles of newspapers. Pointing at a name on the page. See, there I am. I told you I lived. I told you I was.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.

“This is the unforgiving light of morning,” I whispered back. “Time to drop the illusion.” “What illusion?” “That anything can be okay,” I said, and kissed his cheek.

A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.