Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

What did James Capisi see? The boy left me uneasy. I didn’t think he was lying. But children digest terror differently.

I’m here. I don’t usually feel that I am. I feel like a warm gust of wind could exhale my way and I’d be disappeared forever, not even a sliver of fingernail left behind. On some days, I find this thought calming; on others it chills me.

“Ah, well, being conflicted means you can live a shallow life without copping to being a shallow person.”

The X had released its first wave of chemical optimism, I could feel it float up inside me like a big test balloon and splatter on the roof of my mouth, spraying good cheer. I could almost taste it, like a fizzy pink jelly.

He was smashed, swaying heavily, but I would never steer a fellow sufferer from the relief of a blackout. Sometimes that’s the most logical route. I’ve always believed clear-eyed sobriety was for the harder hearted.

Cute kids, really cute clothes. I’d just created a tagline for Wind Gaps’ li’l shoppers.