Sarah lived a life that Myrtle gives two fucks about.

I wanted to crack open her mind and watch a plume of rage come screaming out, drowning out everyone who dared to call it ‘illness.’

I watch horror movies with a sweater pulled over my face. But isn’t that incredible? What is it about this genre that taps into that fight or flight, that visceral turtleneck-stretching impulse to hide from the screen?