Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

I held my breath as I passed the sign welcoming me to Wind Gap, the way kids do when they drive by cemeteries.

Of course my mother didn’t ask me what kind of business could possibly land me here. She rarely asked questions of any potency. It was either an exaggerated concern for others’ privacy or she simply didn’t care much about much. I’ll let you guess which option I favored.

There was nothing I wanted to do more than be unconscious again, wrapped in black, gone away. I was raw. I felt swollen with potential tears, like a water balloon filled to burst. Begging for a pin prick.

“I just think some women aren’t made to be mothers. And some women aren’t made to be daughters.”