Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  At night, when I lay in bed, my thoughts consume me, and my disorder screams from deep, deep down, begging for light, desperate to claw its way up and out of my belly and into my chest. I push it back, but barely. My room is heated, but it feels cold. I think it's Emmett's presence that I miss most. Strange that, since he hasn't exactly been in my life all that long. Or maybe it's because the pillows smell like bleach instead of flowers, and the blankets are scratchy and staunchly utilitarian.

  I dream that I'm fat; I wake to skinny. When I switch out my clothes for pajamas, I'm always afraid that the items my mother packed – all baggy and oversized – will strain across the massive rolls of my gut and bunch at my hips. Instead, they hang loose, almost comically so. The one thing that remains consistent is this: people stare at me and they don't like what they see. So, I guess it doesn't matter whether I'm fat or thin; people are disgusted with me.

  And so I get through the days with my new friend because although she's gregarious on the outside, she's ten times more fragile on the inside and that makes me feel better. Misery loves company. It's a tired saying, sure, but it's true. But at night, the only company I'm allowed to entertain are my demons. And the occasional orderly. They pop in and shake me awake at random hours, so that even my fitful nightmares are interrupted.

  Talk about a living, fucking hell.

  At least I don't have to eat at night. During the day, most of my subconscious revolves around figuring out how to make the food disappear off of my plate without eating too much of it. Kylie helps, as do carefully folded napkins, but stuff still goes down and it doesn't come up.

  I think a lot about that when I'm lying in bed, trying to get my logical brain to understand what my illogical mind has decided about life. Is Kylie right? Is this not really about modeling at all? Am I truly trying to punish myself?

  I trace my fingers along the seams of the comforter, sliding them along the white stitching and wondering who thought burnt orange and green were good color choices to go into this otherwise pink bedroom. I think about the design I drew on the window and the girl that danced across those yellow notepad pages, and then on my last night there, I get up and I start all over again.

  There are no pens in that hospital, no pencils either, but I guess they figure if you can give a pack of crayons to a kid, you can give them to a person in the looney bin. I find them in the desk drawer with a small notepad, gray with a blue logo across the top. Crescent Springs, Where Recovery Means Everything. Recovery. Recovery implies that something lost has been regained. I hardly know if the thing I'm searching for is something I ever really had to begin with.

  I sit down on the floor beneath the window and wish there was someway I could go outside. Fat chance of that happening though. While there's a slim possibility that I could sneak out, if I get caught, I'll be stuck here for God only knows how long, and tomorrow morning, Emmett is going to pull into this parking lot in his little, red two-seater with a beanie on his head and a smile on his face. There's nothing in the world I'd do to risk missing that.

  I close my eyes and imagine the tree house, the way the beds seem to have grown from the wood itself. How the windows are free of glass. The way the sun streams in across the floor. I take all of that energy and that power and I put it into my heart and my hands. At first, I figure I'm just going to start drawing like I did before. This time, though, words come first and then art, twining together across the page like vines.

  It starts out off the same as before, but this time, the message is different.

  [Dear Me,/I want to be pretty while alive./Not on the outside, but/Inside where my heart beats fierce/And my soul glows brighter than the sun.]

  I pause in my poem to draw a star, one that ends up warping in on itself and becoming a dress. It takes up the rest of the page and disappears off the edges of the paper, disintegrating into the darkness and taking shape in my imagination. I lean my head back against the wall, and I can just see it done up in a million different colors, draping a million different girls. When I flip to the next page and start to write again, I don't even look down. I'm sure my words are scribbled and hardly legible, but that's okay. I'll remember what they say. After all, it's my soul spilling out across this page.

  [Burn, burn brightly/so fiercely/that even/the sun can't compare, even the moon can't compete./And the smile that taints my full lips/Looks like the blossoms on the branches of our favorite tree.]

  I pause again and sketch a face. At first, I think it's just going to be a generic set of features, someone to dress up with my designs, but then as my hand grasps a red crayon and begins to fill in fierce, flaming hair, I know without a doubt that this is me.

  I get an intense craving for cake.

  I drop my art supplies and stand up, lurching towards the door like a person possessed. One of the orderlies is passing by in the dimly lit hallway as I emerge. She stops and stares at me, and I can tell from her swinging ponytail that this is the same woman who helped check me in when I first got here.

  “I'd like some cake,” I say which sounds kind of silly. I mean, come on? The woman, whose name is actually Fran according to her name tag, looks at me for a long time and then nods. Maybe she can tell from the gaunt lines of my cheeks that I need this. Even if it means nothing to her, it'll mean everything to me.

  “Okay, Claire,” she says, and I'm surprised that she remembers my name. A smile bites at the edges of her mouth. “I'd be happy to grab a slice from the kitchen for you.” She pauses, and I see something run through her eyes. I interrupt her before she can even voice the thought.

  “I'm not going to purge,” I promise, wanting to cry but refusing. I've had enough of that, will have more in the future, doubtless. “I just want to … eat.” I keep my mind off calorie counts and on my poem, my drawings. This is a big moment for me, okay? It may not seem like a lot, but it is. This exact second in time is as important to me as the moment I passed out on the bathroom floor. I don't know that then, but I will, later, when I recount things from a much happier place. Afterward, I'm going to feel guilty and I'm going to feel sick and I'm going to curse that cake with every naughty word in the book.

  For now, I just am, and that's where I've always wanted to be.

  Fran moves away with another nod, and I retreat back to my notepad. When I pick it up and stare at the lines on the page, I wonder again what I'm doing here. Am I really a model? Intrinsically, is that who I am inside? Or am I an artist? Can I express myself in other ways? Can I be a role model without being an idol? And if so, what's the difference?

  Self.

  A role model values others and in so doing, becomes a better person. An idol values themselves, and in so doing, often becomes something else. Not bad. Not worse. I can't make those sorts of sweeping judgements. I want to. I want to think about how fat all the staff here is, how long Kylie's neck is, how my sister's ears are too big for her head. Those things are conditioned in me, beaten through in my quest for perfection. But now that I'm here, on the other side of that horribly false ideal, I can see that it isn't right. I was never like that before, but I became that way. Why? Why? Why?

  I draw a circle around my face and set the notepad down, putting my hands on my hips and dropping my chin to my chest.

  When Fran comes back, she sets the cake on the edge of the dresser across from the TV and turns to leave without a word. When I open my eyes and look over at her, I decide to ask a question.

  “How do you know my name?” It's an innocuous thing. I mean, she could just tell me that she knows all the patients names or that since she checked me in, she remembers from my paperwork. She could even say that she remembers me because I'm so despicable to look at.

  Instead, I get this along with a smile: “You have such a pretty face, Claire. It's a hard one to forget.” And then she leaves, and I'm left alone with my worst enemy, all 235 plus calories of her.

  We have a long conversation, this piece of fucking cake and me. I wonder briefly if maybe I am crazy
because who in the hell sits and stares at a baked good for over an hour?

  An anorexic, that's who, In-between Claire says. I ignore her and try to decide what New Claire would say. It takes me awhile, but finally, eventually, I get it.

  It's simple, but effective.

  “Hello there,” I say as I take the plate between shaking fingers. “My name is Claire Simone, and it's nice to meet you.”

  The next morning, I'm exhausted in every possible aspect – spiritually, emotionally, physically, but I force myself out of that uncomfortable bed and get all my stuff packed before the sun even rises into the Goddamn sky.

  The poem and the drawings go in the baggy pocket of my saggy assed jeans. I might be coming to certain conclusions about fashion, but none of said conclusions are ever going to change my mind about these hideous mom jeans. Sorry, M. I pause at the door and think about my sister for a moment. Do I still hate her? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I do. That hasn't changed. In fact, in the heavy, gray light that's leaking through the window, it doesn't feel like anything is different although I know that it is. This is a slow process; it's like watching a flower grow. You're not going to see it happen, no matter how hard you try.

  I leave my suitcase inside the door and head over to Kylie's room. I figured she'd be asleep, but she's not.

  “I bet you're just dying to walk out of this shit hole,” she says. She's painting her nails with some weird, organic nail polish. Regular polish is banned here, too. I wonder why. Never heard of anyone dying from Peony Pink before.

  I lean against the door and cross my arms over my ridiculously flat chest. I miss my boobs. Seriously. I want them fucking back. Even if I have to eat a slice of cake for every meal … Okay, so maybe not, but I really, really want to be able to fill out a bikini top at the beach. There's no point in being skinny if I look like a damn boy.

  “Aren't you?”

  Kylie shrugs and looks up with a smile. The light beside her bed is on, painting her face with a yellow glow. She really does have a nice face.

  “I don't know. I'm still debating on whether I'm going to off myself or not.” Kylie pauses to put the cap back on the polish. The way she talks about dying is so … casual. It's a little scary.

  “I wish you wouldn't,” I tell her and this gives her pause. She sets the pink bottle on her nightstand.

  “Why?”

  I have to think about this for awhile.

  I want to give her an honest answer, something that comes from the heart. I could whip up some flowery words, some bullshit about the meaning of life and blah, blah, blah, but I don't think Kylie would care. I may have only known her for three days, but we're kindred spirits, so I'm pretty fucking positive that the straight truth would work better.

  I stand there for a minute and stare at Kylie, meeting her green eyes with my gray ones. Then I give her the best answer I can.

  “I'd like a friend,” I tell her. “And right now, you're it. Besides, from what I can tell, you're an interesting person. The world needs more of those.” Kylie's smile gets big and when she stands up, it's to give me a hug.

  “Thanks, Claire,” she says, and the words are simple but the feeling behind them is not. She's thinking. I've just given Kylie something to consider. When she pulls back, I keep going, for better or worse.

  “Relationships can be forged as quickly as they're broken. I'm not saying go around burning all your bridges, but … ” Kylie steps back and holds my thin hands in her freshly painted fingers. “This guy, the one you'd die for, he's not worth it. If he was, he'd have taken the knife and plunged it into his own heart first.” I think of Emmett, of course, and my family. If love was measured in lengths of time, my family would not be pushing to have me committed, and Emmett would not be driving up here to pick me up. I wet my lips and reach into my pocket, pulling out the wads of notebook paper.

  Before I hand them over to Kylie, I bend down next to the nightstand and dig out the crayon that's wrapped up in the pages. First, I write down Emmett's number, so she can reach me, then I scribble my first poem, the one that represents a letter to my shattered self. I write that down, so Kylie can see that she's not alone. All of us in this world, we're in this pain together whether we know it or not. It's what makes us human; it's what gives us soul.

  When I place the wad of paper in her hand, I close her fingers around it so that she makes a fist.

  “Wait till I leave?” I ask and she nods. Neither of us sheds a tear.

  “Take care,” she tells me, as I turn away and wonder if I'm ever going to see her face again.

  I sure hope so.

  I'm really early, but I go back to my room and grab my suitcase before heading down to the lobby and pausing at the counter. The clerk looks like he's been there all night, and he gives me a half-lidded look and a yawn as I explain my situation to him. It's too early for me to go, he tells me, but I can get the paperwork out of the way, so I do.

  I sign on all the X's, and I dot all my i's before I sit down to wait.

  It's the longest three hours of my life.

  I do not draw; I do not read. I just sit there, and I think, and I think, and I think. I have a lot of that to do. It isn't fun, not necessarily. I mean, at times I let my mind drift to thoughts of Emmett's taught belly and his moist lips, but mostly, I keep it introspective. I've never had much use for this sort of process before, but then, maybe that's why I ended up here. I don't delve too deep into my own psyche, just enough that I skim the surface of who I was, who I am, and who I'd like to be.

  By the time Emmett arrives, I'm practically in a coma.

  He sees me before I see him and comes over to stand at my side, silent but strong. Self-worth and understanding roll off of him in waves and soak into my damaged spirit. But, of course, as shallow as I am, the first thing I notice are the designer shoes in my limited field of vision. Stupidly, I think, Gee, who is wearing Dolce & Gabbana suede sneakers to this dump?

  My eyes flicker up and then immediately fill with tears. I blink them back and rise to my feet, slow and steady.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” he says with a slightly crooked smile. Emmett's brown eyes twinkle at me as my hands make their way up to his face and slide across the freshly shaved surface of his chin, moving back until they're wrapped around his neck and our chests are pressed firmly against one another's. “Waiting for someone?”

  I smile back.

  “Not really,” I say. “I just saw these ridiculously expensive shoes on the feet of a guy who's wearing thirty dollar Target jeans and wondered what the hell he was trying to play at.” Emmett grins and presses his forehead to mine. White, hot heat sears through me as he runs his fingers over my hips and twines them together in the small of my back. I forget to be self-conscious for just a second. That's the beauty of Emmett Sinclair; he makes me forget.

  “Whoa there, Claire,” he says, nipping my bottom lip with gentle teeth. The guy behind the counter watches us apathetically. “You are totally off your game. What kind of fashionista are you? These are actually from Old Navy, and they cost nineteen dollars on sale, okay? Get it straight.”

  “Oh, oops,” I say, closing the small distance between us with my mouth. “My mistake.”

  When our lips touch, gently, oh so gently, I know that the sky could fall down around me, and I wouldn't care. I'm just happy to be standing here with Emmett, feeling his warmth against my skin. Again, you want proof of life before life? Of existence beyond this small bit of earth? Just look at me and Emmett. My soul knows his. It's true. I didn't get that before, but I do now, in this moment, in this kiss. This blissfully, beautiful, gentle kiss.

  When we pull apart finally, regretfully, the man behind the counter says I'm cleared to go.

  I don't question him.

  Emmett takes my suitcase in one hand and me in the other, arm wrapped around my waist and guides me to his car. I close my eyes as he opens the door to avoid catching a glimpse of myself in the window. I feel okay at this moment, but if I see myself a
gain, I might have a fit. When Emmett looks at me, I can tell he doesn't find me near as hideous as I find myself, but he can't possibly believe that I'm beautiful. I have no hair, for God's sake.

  I climb into Emmett's red sports car and let my fingers play across the leather seats. It's doubtful that I'll be getting my Fiesta back. I'm going to have to find a job. A shitty one because that's all I'm qualified for. The pain starts to leak back in, but stops when Emmett gets in next to me and folds one hand over mine.

  “I'm glad you're back, Claire,” he says, and I think he means that in more ways than one.

  “I don't know why I ever left,” I admit, and he nods as he starts up the car and switches it into drive. When he removes his hand from mine, I swear I see a bit of ice form across the top. I smile anyway, watching as Emmett places his hands at ten and two. “It was an accident, you know,” I tell him because I can't remember if we've cleared up that little detail yet. “I wasn't trying to kill myself.”

  “I believe you,” he tells me, without argument. “There's nothing about you that says you'd give up so easily.” I think of Kylie when he says this and hope to God she decides to call me when she gets out. She never gave me her number, and I never asked. Figured it wasn't my place.

  “If Marlena hadn't come … ” I begin, and I see Emmett grimace. My sister is apparently a sore subject for us both. “I think I might've been alright, you know? Now, I feel like things are so much more complicated with my family.” I hold my palms open and up, so I can stare at the lines in my skin. I wonder if there really is a way to tell the future from these little creases. I curl my fingers up. “They really believe I tried to kill myself, and I don't know how to convince them otherwise.”