Juliette's "power" or "glitch" or whatever the hell it is, is never fully explained in detail. It's skirted around in a mass of overwrought metaphors and complete bullshit. Ah, Ms. Ferrars. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by sitting in the corner.” Castle’s easy grin dances into the room before he does. Okay, I have not properly reviewed this series since I read it a year ago (and I don't think I ever can because it would be ridiculously long and the book is so quotable that I would literally be citing the entire thing) but Shatter Me is one of my favorite series of ALL TIME. And it has my FAVORITE LOVE INTEREST of ANY BOOK I'VE EVER READ. Butttt, to anyone considering it, watch this: http://youtu.be/dJt-lGmBSTs. I just found that fan video the other day and I can't stop watching it. I'm sorry but if that doesn't make you want to read this book you do not have a soul. READ. THIS. BOOK. You will either love it or hate it (depending on how you feel about prose) but if you love it than O.M.G. you will love it like you've loved nothing else. As Juliette navigates this new reality, she meets a fellow prisoner named Adam, who has secrets of his own. Together, they embark on a perilous journey to escape The Reestablishment’s clutches and find a group of rebels who oppose the regime.

Oh, and for those of you who have already read the series: TeamWarner. TeamWarner. TeamOhMyGawdILoveHimWarner!!!

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What is it?” I use my left arm to steady myself against the mattress and force myself upright. It takes every ounce of energy I have left, and I’m clinging to the bed frame. I wave away Delalieu’s effort to help; I close my eyes against the pain and dizziness. “Tell me what’s happened,” I say to him. “There’s no point in prolonging bad news.” Leads,” I demand. I move toward my bathroom and wince against the cold air as it hits my skin; I’m still without a shirt. Trying to remain calm. “Tell me you have not brought me this information without leads.” The screams are only the beginning. No, I whisper. A faint blush flushes my face and I’m happy it’s too dark for him to notice. He must have heard my cries. But sir,” he says, eyes trained on my arm, “you’ll need assistance—there’s a process—you’ll require a convalescent aide—” I’m suddenly disgusted with myself. I have to get out of this room as soon as possible, or my own thoughts will wage war against me. I make a hasty decision and for the first time, pay little attention to what I’m wearing. I tug on a fresh pair of pants and go without a shirt. I slip my good arm into the sleeve of a blazer and allow the other shoulder to drape over the sling carrying my injured arm. I look ridiculous, exposed like this, but I’ll find a solution tomorrow.

Now I’m not so sure. Now I’m worried. Now my mind is a traitor because my thoughts crawl out of bed every morning with darting eyes and sweating palms and nervous giggles that sit in my chest, build in my chest, threaten to burst through my chest, and the pressure is tightening and tightening and tighteningDo I need to explain how shitty this writing is? And yes, before people yell at me and tell me that I don't understand metaphors... I do. But the excessive use of them and just metaphors themselves are maybe not my thing. Now, I'm pretty No One Knows Why Juliette Has Such Incredible Power. It Feels Like A Curse, A Burden That One Person Alone Could Never Bear. But The Reestablishment Sees It As A Gift, Sees Her As An Opportunity. An Opportunity For A Deadly Weapon. I hear no showers running and my heart stops. This particular room is rarely full, but there are usually others, if only 1 or 2. I’ve come to realize that the asylum’s residents are either legitimately insane and can’t find their way to the showers, or they simply don’t care.