Litchick's Hit List

Love triangles make me cry tears as salty as the ocean. They wash up on the shores of my cheeks and flow around the inverted palm tree of my nose, over the conch shell of my lips and off the cliff of my chin. I can hear them screaming like a thousand tiny fairies as they hurl themselves into the abyss.

Drip.

Drip.

Drop.

SCREECH.

In the beginning of this book the relationship drama was overpowering. It was like that guy that stands idly in the back of the band, banging a metallic stick against a metallic triangle, hoping that the dull chiming is heard by the audience. Except someone has put a microphone to it. And taken away the rest of the band. And turned the volume up to eleven. The chiming is all you hear. It drills into your skull slowly, like a worm moving through rich soil. It burrows into your brain like a bear readying itself for hibernation and makes a nest there among your synapses like a bird ready to lay.

Chime

The men are yelling at each other, wearing their emotions like armor, swinging their rage like swords.

Chime

The MC is confused. She gasps in horror as her gladiators’ battle each other in an arena made out of her heart, with an audience made of her feels.

Chime

A winner emerges. He’s the one you never guessed but always hoped for. The one you thought a monster. But wait, what is this? The horrible things, the inexcusable things he did…were all misconceptions. The explanations for his actions sit inside a paper box. When you lift the lid, what falls out? The interesting character you thought you knew is gone, his face dashed away by the pounding of waves upon a rocky coast. Seeing what emerges is like living in a house full of furniture that isn’t actually there. You think you’ll bump into an edge, trip over a rug, but in the end, there’s nothing. It’s just perfect, empty space.

And the one you thought kind? The one you thought you knew? His gentle nature is conveniently stripped away layer by layer. The deeper you delve, the uglier it gets, until all you’re left with is regret. Regret that you thought this would be interesting, that you thought the MC might CHOOSE to love the bad guy even though he was bad.

Perfect excuses fly off of these pages like a thousand migrating monarch butterflies. They flutter past your outraged face and linger teasingly in your peripheral vision like snow falling in a forest.

Drip.

Drip.

Drop.

SCREECH.