Sharp Objects

by Gillian Flynn

A town so suffocating and small, you tripped over people you hated every day. People who knew things about you. It’s the kind of place that leaves a mark.

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

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

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.

A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort.