It took me a bit to catch onto how the title connects to the book, but once I did I realized this book is so much more than what it seems and tackles an interconnected web of larger topics that heterosexual, white, male America never seems ready to talk about and heterosexual, white, female America turns their face away from in guilt, shame, and ignorance all too often. They’re topics we ask children to understand every day: We tell them it’s a horrible thing that happened and it should be stopped, but then another day/month/year goes by and no one has done anything at all. And then we wonder why they become apathetic to it all.

What does it mean to be tender? Affectionate? Compassionate? Aware of how fragile and prone to injury they are? Aware you don’t want to jostle or disturb them lest they be disturbed? And is tenderness only reserved for those who have passed? Where is the tenderness for the living? Where is the affection, compassion, and care for those still here and not only grieving but trying to come to terms with the world changing every time a life is lost? Is it just easier to be tender with those who are gone?

I picked up this book at about seven in the evening and smashed right through it in about four hours. It had me in a chokehold. LaRocca’s choice to go with a mixed-media approach of narrative passages from two protagonists, diary entries, newspaper pieces, and academic journal articles was a thoughtful choice that helped not only with exposition but also worldbuilding while not bogging the text down or slowing the pacing significantly. I’d heard this book was traumatic and gruesome, but I’ve honestly read books far more gruesome this year with far more disturbing scenes…though maybe none as unflinchingly thought-provoking. 5⭐️


I was provided a copy of this by the author and publisher via Netgalley. All thoughts, opinions, views, and ideas expressed herein are mine and mine alone. Thank you.

File Under: 5 Star Review/Body Horror/Book Series/Horror/LGBTQ Horror/OwnVoices/Paranormal Horror