I’m still upset about a book I just read. I’m trying to be okay because I know how pathetic it is to be disturbed by things that really didn’t happen; of stuffs that are lifted from fiction. But I can’t help it.
It struck a nerve, a nerve that’s too vulnerable – something I’ve been hindering almost all my life. Something that took me years to cover and then suddenly was jabbed by a story so sharp, jagged and filthy. For all its worth, I tried to unload by sharing my read with three people. They did like the story and one even asked if she can borrow the book. But while I provided them with an interlude and perhaps a recommendation for future reads, I could not withdraw the nagging feeling of lose.
Damn you Emily Maguire! Why did you have to kill Jamie? Why not Daniel or Sarah? Or even Mike? I don’t care who you kill … I don’t care if you kill every revolting character in your book. But why Jamie?! You’re such a genius!
I can’t get Jamie’s story off my mind; the perverted way he allowed Sarah to disintegrate his mind. The hopeless existence he had to endure with her. Sick. Sick. Sick.
These reads thoroughly scare me.