Young adult fiction has always been an uneasy genre. When authors write for adults, we’re writing for each other. When we write for children, we’re writing for another tribe. We have connections to this tribe, of course, having once belonged to it, but nonetheless our status as outsiders is clear. But what is our position when we write for teenagers? Often, especially in realistic novels, YA authors seem to be trying (and not quite succeeding) to set their adult selves aside, resulting in an uncomfortable hybrid.

In Stained, author Cheryl Rainfield once again tackles heavy, topical, mature subject matter (her 2010 novel, Scars, was called out by The Wall Street Journal in a contentious 2011 article for exemplifying the “darkness” pervasive in YA). Seventeen-year-old Sarah is abducted by Brian, a sexual predator, kept imprisoned for four months, starved, raped repeatedly, and psychologically tortured. After Brian plays her a recording of the death of one of his other victims, it becomes clear to Sarah that he intends to kill her.

In a parallel narrative, Sarah’s parents search for their daughter, aided by her loyal friend Nick. In a particularly chilling twist, Brian is a colleague of Sarah’s father and appears in both storylines, a monster in one, an apparently supportive family friend in the other.

A major plot element explains the book’s  title, though it doesn’t entirely tie in to the abduction story. Sarah has a large port-wine birthmark on her face and has been the victim of vicious bullying her whole life. “I can still see that horrible, doctored photo – pus oozing out of the purple stain on my face, flies crawling over my skin,” she says, recounting an episode of cyberbulling. It’s a wonder Sarah functions at all, even before her abduction.

What is inexplicable about this novel is how it manages to be so highly pitched yet simultaneously flat. The material is potentially searing, yet Rainfield pulls her punches, making Sarah implausibly resilient. For example, she’s blindfolded for the entire four months of her captivity. Wouldn’t this, in and of itself, be the cause of serious mental trauma and physical distress? But we almost forget that detail as we read Sarah’s first-person, present-tense narrative. When she finally rips off the blindfold, she is temporarily blind. Her reaction: “But I think of Helen Keller, of the way she did things no one ever thought she could, and I know this won’t stop me.”

Similarly, mere hours after her return to safety, Sarah is able to put her ordeal into perspective. (“I escaped death twice and won. I stopped a rapist, a kidnapper, a murderer. I’m not the victim Brian said I am. I never was.”) Somehow her experience has also made her accept her disfigurement. It is all too easy. There is a reason that in Emma Donoghue’s abduction novel, Room, half the action takes place after the characters escape from their prison.

The distancing feeling is also created by a generic approach to character. The members of the cast feel more like ideas for characters – the bullied victim, the mean girl, the loving but hapless parents, the chubby lesbian friend, the geeky boy who draws comics – than real, fully inhabited people. This effect is partly created by the way they speak: these teenagers have wholeheartedly embraced the vocabulary of therapy and self-help. They clock their emotions and provide a running gloss on their progress, flashing emotional signposts instead of letting the reader draw her own conclusions.

“That’s what I want to be – emotionally stronger. Able to do what feels right to me, even if no one else understands,” says the starved, abused, cold, terrified Sarah. Nick spends time with Sarah’s parents, but we don’t really see much of their interaction. Instead we’re given a summary: “We find comfort in one another’s grief, and in our hope.” He binges on cookies and alerts us to what that means: “I eat to numb the feelings inside me.”

The author’s note appended to this novel is a direct address to teens concerning their safety. It is kind, empathetic, personal, and supportive. It has statistics on rape and links to useful resources on the issues of body image and self-defence. This is the adult, informing and guiding the young in a nurturing tone.

In terms of character development, story arc, plausibility, and nuanced writing, Stained falls short. In terms of providing optimism for damaged teens, and basic information and vocabulary around abuse, it may be a useful tool for young readers – bibliotherapy pure and simple.