Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  C.M. Stunich

  Sarian Royal

  for Rhea French,

  and all the wonderful things she'll do.

  you're good for this world.

  From the very first moment we come into this world, it's a struggle to survive. A rough and tumble journey of epic proportions awaits us, taunts us, even as we lie there wet and scared, mouths open to cry, eyes squinched shut with tears. It's a gasping breath of surprise that escapes us then, a strange, forgotten memory where we all wonder what we've gotten ourselves into.

  It's no different the second time.

  When my mouth opens and I gasp for breath, my eyes flicker open and I see nothing but white light. It cascades down around me like rain, opening me up to my rebirth, pulling me into this world by force.

  “Claire?”

  There are voices, more than one, I think, but I can only pick out that one, single word. I'm like a newborn in every way; I've even lost my vocabulary. Hands are touching me, I think, but I'm not sure because I'm still stuck halfway in the womb of the world, and I'm trying to push my way out. My arms and legs feel heavy, like they're filled with sand, and my head is thumping hard, pulsing as it draws desperately from blood that isn't mine, sucks it up into a tube and pulls it inside of me.

  I start to struggle.

  Like a babe, I kick, and I scream, and I want to know why I'm here and how I got here and who was cruel enough to put me here.

  Red blood dripping across white tiles, staining them crimson. Wet moistness everywhere, coating me, dragging me down. Glass clattering, tinkling like wind chimes.

  I fight to breathe as the light breaks into pieces around me, shatters like glass and stabs my eyes with hot darts of pain.

  “Claire?”

  That one word, that voice.

  At least there's something that I know: Emmett Sinclair. Even in this daze, I recognize that sound. Somehow, I know that he isn't really there, that I'm drawing on memories instead of reality. The voices around me are free of emotion, clinical, talking about blood loss and vital signs and a bunch of other shit that means nothing to me then. Nothing.

  Emmett Sinclair.

  I don't remember who he is to me exactly or where I met him or what happened between us, but I do recognize the sound of his voice.

  “Claire, are you alright? Do you need some help?”

  Yes, I whisper this time. Yes. I tell the truth, and I think my lips actually move, form the word and push it out into space. Yes, I need help. Can you help me? Will you help me?

  “Claire, even when you think there's only one road to your destination, you can always find a scenic detour.”

  I try to lift my arms, so I can sit up, but I can't move them. My mouth opens again and lets forth another cry as I gasp for breath and collapse into the hospital bed.

  The blood loss takes over and I pass out.

  I don't know how Sleeping Beauty felt when she awoke from her enchanted sleep, but if it is anything like the way I feel right now, then I can guess she was one pissed off princess. My head feels like a balloon, attached to my body by a thin string, one that's liable to snap at any moment. My eyelids are weighted down with stones, and my left arm feels cold and painful. Fluids pump into me and slide up my veins, making my whole body tingle with the invasion.

  I slap at the sore spot with fluttery fingers and wince when the needles jab into my skin. My eyes snap open suddenly and flick back and forth in a desperate attempt to focus on something, anything. My brain is racing, trying to recap the last few … hours? Days? How long have I been out? And, in fact, why am I out? Where the fuck am I?

  The treehouse … Emmett and I making love … Oh. And Marlena. The glass. The blood.

  I press my hands over my ears and hear the thumping pound of my pulse, beating away inside of my empty head.

  What happened? Did I take it too far?

  “Claire?”

  My head whips around and my vision blurs for a moment, fading to black and then springing to technicolor in an instant. Bile rises in my throat and my eyelids flutter. I lean back with a groan while white blotches of color fall in front of me, obscuring my view of the hospital room, the mounds of flowers that line the tables on either side. The whiteness flitters around like a butterfly, popping up here and there while I try desperately to blink it away.

  “Oh my God, Claire.” The voice is familiar to me, one that I've had ringing in my ears my entire life. Right now, it's choked with tears, afraid and ecstatic both. Mom? I think, but I'm not ready for words yet. My mouth is so dry that it hurts, like my saliva's turned to sand. My tongue grinds against my teeth as I try to regain control of my basic motor functions. Ones that I should've never lost in the first place. I dig through my skull looking for memories, trying to pull together a play by play of what happened.

  An accident. A mistake.

  Anger hits me then, like a freight train it barrels through me and makes me dizzy. The power of the emotion is so strong that when I finally do get a glass of water lifted to my lips, I have a hard time swallowing past the rage in the back of my throat. Marlena came in and did what she always does, sticking her nose in other people's business. I want to blame her for this, but I know deep down that I'm the only one at fault. I didn't do it on purpose, but I did do it. It was me that refused to put food to my lips, chose instead to put a blade to my skin.

  My vision clears, but I won't look at my mother. I just can't right now. Instead, I focus straight ahead, at the door. In walks a doctor, a beautiful one with a full figure and a head of long, dark, silky hair. Already, I dislike her. She has sharp eyes and a small mouth that's set in a smirk, but not at me necessarily. I can tell from the lines around her mouth that this is just the way she is. Not good. I know what this looks like.

  I can hardly get my brain to form the word, but my lips move. Suicide. Luckily, nobody sees this.

  The doctor swings a tablet out from under her arm and flicks the screen with her finger. She's using an iPad instead of a clipboard. Fancy. Guilt starts to creep in then. This must've been very expensive. I can't do this to my family. I have to get out of here now. My fingers slide across the bed and touch the mass of tubes. It's only then that I realize there's one that isn't in my arm. My head flops to the left, and I see it.

  “Mrs. Simone?” the doctor asks, coming forward and holding out her hand. I hear the slight creak of a chair and assume my mother is standing to greet her, so they can talk about me like I'm not here. I don't like that. I don't like that at all. It's my life, and no matter how stupid I'm being, how reckless, how careless, those are my choices to make. My eyes remain locked on that … that thing. I try to reach up to check, just to be sure, just so I know what's really happening to me. Just so I know that I'm attached to a feeding tube.

  I start to panic.

  “What's going to happen now?” I hear my mother say, but I'm hardly listening. Instead, I'm trying to guess how many calories are in that bag hanging nearby, full of some fatty, disgusting goop that's being pumped through my fucking nostril and into my stomach.

  A whimper escapes my throat and both women turn to look at me.

  “Hello there, Claire,” says Smirk, MD, looking at me like she knows how badly I'm suffering and doesn't care. Yeah, I decided that maybe I kind of wanted to get help, but I don't want it forced on me. Oh God, I just want to make my own decisions.

  But I'm weak, oh so weak, and there isn't any fight in my body, just my spirit.

  “I want Emmett.” I croak these words out, force them through a tight, dry throat and out my chapped lips. “I want to see Emmett.” My mom looks horrified, face scrunched up like she's found out I've got brain damage or something. I barely look at her. Instead, I'm staring at the doctor. “I'm eighteen years old. I
'm not a minor.”

  Dr. Smirk gives me a patronizing look.

  “Glad to see you're awake, Claire. The nurse will be in shortly to check your vitals.” She doesn't acknowledge my statement and instead reaches out a hand and places it on my mother's shoulder, drawing my mom's green eyes over to her and off of me. Thank God. Right now, my mother's looks are less than pleasant. I can't tell if she's irate with me or if she's just happy to see me alive. “I'd like to talk to you in the hallway for a moment if you wouldn't mind. We got a call back from Bayview Hills.” My mother nods and reaches down to pick up her purse.

  I watch them go with rage boiling inside of me, cooking my soul, charring it black.

  I want to reach up and wrap my fingers around the feeding tube, yank it out of my stomach and throat and storm out of there, but I'm not a fucking TV trope, so instead I just sit there and hold back a scream.

  If they send me to Bayview Hills, I'll walk right back out and keep doing what I'm doing. I don't want their kind of help. I don't want rules and regulations and people hovering over me with clipboards. I want Emmett Sinclair and his easy smile, his arms with their tiny scars, his beautiful brown eyes. I hope he hasn't given up on me. But he should. Emmett should go find a girl who's happy with herself, that makes him happy. He doesn't even know me, not really. I mean, maybe he already has walked away, thrown my stuff on the lawn, gone out to drinks with a pretty blonde from work.

  The rage turns into a fury. I fling the blankets back and stare down at my legs.

  My stomach rolls and I end up leaning back with my eyes focused on the ceiling and tears pouring down my cheeks. What did I just see? What just happened? I sniffle and sit up again.

  I'm not wearing Valentino anymore, not Alexander McQueen, not Roberto Cavalli. No, no. Claire Simone has fallen far. She's got on a pale blue hospital gown, thin, cheap, like a wisp of smoke hovering around these … these sticks. A scream builds in my throat. I see sallow skin wrapped around bone and knees that are bigger than my calves. I lift my hands up to my face, catch a glimpse of white bandages wrapped around my wrists. My fingers are so little, long and thin, like witch hands.

  No. No. This isn't me. I glance around quickly, eyes flickering back and forth like fireflies. I'm fat. Claire Simone is fat and huge and disgusting. I pull my legs over the edge and let my bare feet hit the floor. No, her feet. They aren't mine. I have pudgy feet with big, ugly toes.

  I stand up and drag myself over to the table next to the partially open bathroom door. The IVs and the feeding tube come with me, pulling their metal stands along behind me.

  I snatch one of the cards from a jar of roses.

  Get well soon! We love you, Claire. -Jenn and Leanne

  I toss it to the floor. Next card.

  Claire, you are and always have been one of God's angels. -Auntie C.

  Floor. Card.

  I'm sorry, and I love you, Claire. -Marlena

  All of these pieces of paper with my name on them. My heart starts to pound and my vision whirls, sending me stumbling sideways. But of course. What did you expect? That you'd switched bodies with someone? This is you, Claire. And you're not fat. You're skinny, Claire. You're skinny and you're dying. That's the truth, so get over yourself and deal with it or they'll deal with it for you.

  I hit the edge of the bed and I start to fall. The door opens and people rush in, but they don't get to me in time. My head smacks the floor and I get the rare and blessed opportunity to flee this world for another, at least temporarily.

  When I wake this time, my vision and my sanity return much more quickly. I know where I am, and I know what's going on. I open my eyes just a little, just enough that I can see who's here, but not enough that they know I'm awake. I listen to the conversation carefully, trying to catch up.

  “The thing is, Mom,” Marlena begins, and red fills my head for a moment. I hate her. I hate her so much it makes my chest hurt. The things she said to Emmett, the way she looked at him, the way she looked at me. I want her to go away and never come back. She doesn't understand me, and she never will. Never. “Bayview Hills is nice, but it's not equipped to handle a case as severe as Claire's.” Movement from my right. I want to look and see, but I don't want them to know I'm awake. As soon as they do, this conversation will stop and their plans will remain in the dark. I have to know my fate, figure out how to take control back. If they knew that my issues were at least partially related to control, maybe they'd rethink the way they were handling this. But they don't. They don't know shit about me or my feelings or that rapacious, little monster inside me.

  “I don't want to send her away, Marlena,” Mom sniffles, scooting her chair across the floor. I still can't see her, but my hearing's in overdrive and I catch snippets of creaking plastic, metal scraping linoleum.

  “This isn't permanent, honey.” Big Bob. Crap. From big to small, Big Bob sees it all. If he glances this way, he'll know I'm awake. I remain very still, doing my best to ignore the feeling of the tube up my nose. It's probably the single most disturbing thing I've ever experienced. Just the knowledge that I'm being fed without my express permission gives me the chills. “If we want her to get better, we have to do what's necessary. Besides, Crescent Springs is only three hours away. It's not like we couldn't make weekend trips up there to visit.”

  Marlena snaps her fingers. While my parents sit off to the side, Marlena stands at the foot of my bed like she's the leader of this family or something, taking charge and making decisions. I want Emmett so bad it hurts. He understands me better than anyone.

  “Exactly. She needs round the clock supervision and care, expert counseling and psychiatric help. Bayview Hills is for eating disorders specifically. Claire is … ” Marlena trails off and sighs deeply. “Claire is very, very sick, Mom.” My mother starts to cry quietly. This is probably the toughest thing she's ever dealt with in her life. My mom's lived a charmed one, that's for sure. Hopefully this will toughen her up. Life isn't all roses. If it was, it would be a hell of a lot less interesting. “Crescent Hills can help with the … the cutting and the depression as well as the anorexia.”

  “And it gets her away from that fucking freak,” my father growls out, voice low and deep, like a grizzly who's just seen a hunter approaching his young. That's about all I can take.

  “Why not let me decide?” I scratch out, and there's this horrible silence that bursts open and twists into frantic movement and sound, people standing over me, staring at me, trying to touch my face. In that moment, I hate them all. I am a caged butterfly, wings tied back, trapped. Trapped. Trapped.

  “How are you feeling, Claire?” Marlena says, voice pitched high, like she's talking to a fucking preschooler. I let my eyes open fully, and I switch on my anger, let it beam out and burn her. She stares back at me, blue eyes innocent and wide. I wish I could slap her.

  “How do you think I'm feeling?” I croak as my mother presses a glass of water to my mouth. I try to reach up, snatch it away from her dramatically, but my hands shake, and I'm forced to drop them back to the bed. I purse my mouth and refuse to drink. “I want to get out of here,” I tell them. My mom cups the glass against her chest and exchanges a glance with my sister. She doesn't look to her husband nor he to her. When Big Bob finally does stand up, he, too, stares at Marlena for information. What. The. Hell. “Don't look at her,” I gargle, choking on sandy spit and struggling to sit up straighter, so I don't feel so small, so helpless. “I'm eighteen years old.”

  “And on my insurance,” Big Bob booms, but I notice he doesn't look at me. Why? He avoids me, staring at anything and everything else. I feel sick. “Besides, you're barely eighteen.”

  “Eighteen is eighteen. I can vote.” I cough and take a gasping breath. I feel weightless and heavy at the same time. It's not a good feeling. “I can make my own decisions. I want to get out of here.”

  “The state requires that you be evaluated by an assessment team and then held in a qualified facility for seventy-two hours.” I tremble, an
d I shake, but finally, finally, I get myself propped back against the pillows. I don't look down at my arms or legs. I can't handle the sight right now.

  “That's bullshit,” I say.

  “Claire!” my mother wails, breaking down. Tears stream down her chubby face, and she won't stop sniffling. I want to feel bad for her, but I don't. Does that make me a bad person? Am I broken? Has this monster, in her self-imposed starvation, eaten away my heart and soul to make up for the lack of food? “You tried to kill yourself! What did you expect to happen?”

  “I didn't try to kill myself.” I get indignant now. I didn't. It was an accident. I was just trying to feel again, to be happy. Emmett was getting me there, had me right on top of a hill, ready to start down the other side together, but Marlena, she dragged me back. Her words still sting my ears, sharp as wasps. “It was an accident. You just showed up and started spouting your be-all, know-all crap when you had no clue what you were talking about.”

  “Claire.” My father starts to get this tone in his voice while Marlena looks down at me like she feels sorry for me. I want to tell her to fuck off, that she has no right to feel bad for me. I'm in this position because I made bad decisions. I wasn't attacked, forced into this.

  Instead I say, “I want to see Emmett.” I'm going to keep repeating myself until someone hears me. I don't want to admit it to anyone, least of all myself, but I don't feel so good right now. Not physically, of course, but mentally, I'm also a wreck. I want to curl up in someone's arms and cry. No, not someone. Emmett Sinclair. My family might not like him, but I do, and I have every right to see him. He chose to see the inner me; it didn't matter what I looked like on the outside. And he's the only one that tried to encourage me instead of boss me around.

  My father's face puffs up, but he keeps his brown eyes on the ugly flower painting opposite him.

  “That boy is a freak,” he snarls while Marlena sighs and rubs at her forehead. My mother looks down and away, like she can't possibly handle any direct eye contact with her mentally confused corpse daughter.