Gorgeous prose, oh my goodness. I was afraid Bunny would be a one-hit wonder in regards to my own enjoyment of Awad's work, but clearly that isn't the case! In fact, I'm a little peeved that this hasn't gotten the same amount of hype as Bunny, because it's fantastic IMO. Less comedic & visceral but equally as dark. I wish I wrote a review right after I finished this instead of putting it off for a week so that I could've gushed more thoroughly.

Apparently some people found Miranda's POV tiring, but I was engrossed. Awad does love her "can't tell if they're still experiencing reality" protagonists. I work in the medical field so the discussion about chronic pain was doubly haunting to me; I don't ever want my patients to feel unheard, to become this hopeless, although I understood the struggle of treating an "invisible" illness. Other than the Weird Brethren, there was probably a bunch of other parallels to Shakespeare's work that sadly went over my head. I already enjoyed this so much, I can only imagine how cool it must be to have that added perspective. Even the interview with the author at the end made for great reading, with the explanations about how theater/performance/pain can intertwine.

I'll leave a few of my favorite quotes here because I don't know what else to say other than I LOVED THIS, it was so freaking good.

 

I felt a drop, I told Grace. Felt their anger in the filthy air. Felt the sword above my head. Felt my doom in the thickening night as we drove here. Three silhouettes looming in my side mirror, loping along the shoulder like wolves. But the dread had strangely left me in the dressing room. I even smiled at the fog all around as I parked the car and walked toward Grace. Walked, not limped. Not yet. I held up my aching hands to the drizzle. Go ahead, I whispered to the black clouds gathering. Come for me.

 

 

Her leaf-green eyes have returned to their former brightness but there are shadows among the leaves now.

 

 

And my tear-streaked face impossibly smiling. Not the brightly beaming face of the young woman from the old Playbill photo, not anymore. No more eyes like stars, no more blinding eclipse. This face shines another light. This face says I have lived, I’m alive. This face says I’ve known joy and pain, known them both. I’ll know them both again.