#what would she do with that. amma camille adora. they would all freak her the fuck out

[mimicakes]

i still want val to have somehow been besties with dahlia hawthorne at one point. they have a book club and they read sharp objects and dahlia wants to remove every copy from the face of the earth

[olivia-crains]

Sharp Objects

Episodes: Vanish, Dirt, Fix, Ripe

Content below may be triggering for some, please read with discretion.

Examining tiny hairs became my daily hobby. I would always attempt to remove the tiny white bulb from each eyebrow or eyelash I pulled.

I had two groups of friends in middle school, one set who did nothing but make fun of me and really appealed to my critic voice, and the other group who were kind and loving and adored me. I am sure you can guess which group I hung out with more often. Christ, you’d think I would have learned by now. These girls would write notes to me in class threatening to kill my cat, they would go into gruesome detail about how they would do it and where they would bury him. My boy was only about a year old and he was my world, this ‘friend’ befriended me because I was the new kid at this school and had a photo of my cat in the front pocket of my binder. She used the very thing I loved so much to hurt me. This would grow to be a frequent occurrence with all the toxic individuals who have entered my life. The picking began that year, while taking our end of grade tests, the note passing session fell around the same time as well. I hate seeming like I was an easy target and like a pitiful little baby, I had no problem sticking up for myself and becoming defensive, but it is as if they and everyone else knew I would take their insults and words to heart and lash out at myself in the process, it is as if no one took me seriously. My vulnerability has always been used against me though it is my favorite attribute that I embody. So, following the threatening cat letter, I told my Mom and she in turn told my teacher, though I told her not to. The girls were obviously scolded and were told to apologize to me and they did and I forgave them and all was dandy! Me teacher took a liking to me after that happened, she stopped me in the hallway and said to me one afternoon “You know that saying, sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me? Well, words are worse.” I have never forgotten that, and thinking back on that now, I would much rather someone shatter my skull than harm my heart with words; the most powerful weapon of all.

My palm is still pulsating from my grip on my favorite pair of scissors. I used to use them to cut out photos of the cast of LOST and carefully pin them on my wall, they are children’s scissors, a rather hideous blue color, I once was detained at the Colorado airport for having them in my backpack. These scissors have traveled with me for well over a decade now, always handy, for whatever need may arise.

Is there anything more vulnerable and heartbreaking than hearing an adult refer to their Mom as ‘Mama’? It is the southern staple, it is what I call my own Mama, a spark of my inner child latching on to this tiny, yet, oh so powerful word.

Everything is a sharp object, a person who self harms spends time scanning rooms. When you vow to not keep the ‘normal’ tools in your home, you sometimes have to get creative when you are desperate. Using the end of a tube of lotion, safety pins, knives, caps from various household items (toothpaste, prescription bottles, etc), the blades of your blender screaming your name, end of a lightbulb, end of an iPhone charger, etc. Anything can work as long as you press hard enough. The thoughts and perceptions are the ammunition; the cutting itself is the therapy.

I chipped my front tooth on a glass bottle a few months ago, it is sharp and jagged, but barely noticeable. As an anxious habit, I tend to rub my thumb nail against the sharp part of the tooth and drag my thumb up and down repeatedly throughout the day, my cuticles are worn and bruised, my nail has white lines, jagged and uneven all over. I wish I picked up skills as quickly as I pick up gross habits. I always must be doing something, whether it is biting my nails, digging my car key into my stomach while socializing, cutting words like ‘fat’ and ‘never’ on the inside of my thighs, purging until my throat is stinging and raw, picking and picking, punishing me for being me.

I am always particularly drawn to destructive characters, not their behaviors or habits, but their strength. It takes a brave person to keep living when everything inside of them is frothing with hate. The damage is outside of ourselves, though we take it out on ourselves, no matter the issue, no matter the severity, we take it out on ourselves. Amy Adams perfectly conveys what it is like to have destructive thoughts and painful memories rumbling inside of your skull at all times, instead of taking it out on other people, which tends to be the more common practice, she takes it out on herself. Why is it that I can care for such characters so deeply but cannot care about myself? I think it is because my issues are weak comparatively, that is what the message on the jumbotron flashing across my insides reads.

I recently turned in my apartment key to my former leasing agent, my first thought when I left the building was about that key; a sense of mourning trailing behind me. It is dull and smells of nickel, but I have always preferred it due to its specific ridges. I trace my finger across the grooves, it is ritualistic in nature, that’s always how it begins, I feel the object, allow guilt over past issues/what people think of me take hold of me, and carve. It is an instant euphoria, it’s hard to describe it, it feels like my guilt or my self-loathing is silenced for the night. My thoughts quiet, bleeding through, I always promise this will be the last time, only issue is my guilt and self-loathing are like rabbits; rapidly procreating.

Camille hides her indulgences like a child, her stunted adolescence is showcased through the candy bars and tiny alcohol bottles she continues to sneak into her Mother’s home. Addicts and individuals who partake in harmful activities tend to minimize everything and/or make excuses for themselves. Camille buys small bottles of vodka instead of a full handle. Camille softens experiences, her rape, cutting, alcoholism, she is never the victim, ever, she thinks she deserves all of this. Placing the sewing needles against the pad of a finger, no blood, no incision, just a press. It isn’t real if the dose of the destruction is untraceable.

Camille is so real, so dark, familiar. Unlovable. The only way to stop ones destructive habit(s) is to graduate to a new one. For Camille, that is alcohol. There is almost a self destructive meter that each person has. For me, alcoholism and sex addiction are the 10s, I made a promise to myself years ago that I will never get there, ever. I tend to teeter on the line at a 5/6. 1-Pulling (trichotillomania) 2- weak cuts, no depth 3-anorexia 4-heavier cutting 5-bulimia 6-bulimia and cutting. I know this makes no sense and seems appalling, but these are examples of my own personal excuses. “Well, ill never make it to a ten, well I never use razors, well ill never be a sex addict because no one will have sex with me, etc.” I am trying my hardest to level down, the only issue is there is so much darkness I have yet to punish myself for, so many memories living at the forefront, things I will never forget. Our ability to remember everything is our everlasting curse, no prince will ever break it, in a way, our worst memories are what keep our destruction alive. A buffet for the critic living inside of us.

Adora’s words slither. Whispers coated with poison, suffocating all those around her, yet her love and approval feel like antidotes. Camille will never fully heal.

Amma wraps her lollipop around Camille’s waves in her hair, the ultimate childish act. Teens are just so freaking scary, that scene is just deeply troubling and it is tough to see a grown woman sucked into a gaslighting reality. Its all about power dynamics in that toxic town. Camille seems fearful, her tone shifts to defensive, but it never works, not even on her sister who is more than a decade younger than her, people can just sense that she is an adult child. The empath. The watcher. The ultimate reactor.

Camille is timid, but she asserts such dominance when her secret is threatened to be exposed.

There is an acid stain on my porcelain tub, it sits two inches from the drain and features a light orange tint, I remember that specific night that stain was born. Its the spot I always aim for when purging; a home, a landing strip for my innards, you’re not alone here; no one is alone here. I shave sitting down in the shower because I am a weak individual who just prefers to sit or lay at all times, I notice the stain, I stick only one finger in my throat to gag, but stop myself from taking it further than that, it isn’t good, but I have to do something. Usually I will stare in the general direction of the stain and blindly shave while staring at it, my eyes shift to the drain and memories shoot out and I wish to turn the small top off of the drain and cut myself again, I ignore that and continue to shave, if only I had shorter legs.

I bet you’re sensitive, writers are sensitive. You can make people understand.

Camille is a person of senses, she is so easily triggered by her environment. She feeds off of energies; clocking everyone.

There is a moment in Vanish where Camille is driving in Wind Gap, she sees one of the town’s many murals and says quietly, but with a shake of comfort, “Hi Betty.” She later greets the mural outside of the tire store and says with a sarcastic (she finds the funny and its one of so many things I so deeply love about her, her wit is incredibly strong) tone, “What do ya know, Joe?” I have this ritual to ease my anxiety that I have been doing since I was a teenager, whenever I am feeling overwhelmed or like I wish to purge or cut, I say hello to every object in the room I am in. Hello sink, hello rug, hello shampoo, hello conditioner. I have never really given much thought to this little coping mechanism of mine, but Camille saying hello to these little pieces of her town, it made me feel less like a freak.

The yellow innards of the lemons printed on my sheets stared back at me. A perfect set of sheets for the summer, lemons have always made me happy, I tend to give fruits and other inanimate objects personalities, and lemons are just so very kind and nurturing. Mother fruit. As a child, I would constantly take the lemons from my parent’s waters at restaurants and suck on them until my tongue was numb. The blood is traceable, not much, a familiar yet distant sight to behold. The warmth of the blood slowly dripping down my inner thigh landing on one of the many lemons printed on my sheets; silencing its kindness.

There is always a sting of pain hidden beneath the shadow of empathy in the eyes of the damaged. Weighted looks, like magnets, that draw you in.

In the words of the masterful Gillian Flynn,

Camille is a ballerina with a steel spine.