Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

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.

The problem started long before that, of course. Problems always start long before you really, really see them.

Frankly, I think Adora prefers us to feel like strangers. She wants all relationships in the house to run through her.

Her wheedling tone reminded me of just the kind of girls I was never comfortable with, the types who peddled a sort of plastic chumminess, who told me things about themselves only friends should know, who described themselves as “people persons.”

Her medicine always made me feel sicker than before.