Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  “That boy is a blessing,” I say and mean it. At times, yeah, Emmett did piss me off, but so did everyone else. So they continue to piss me off. I think of the map to the treehouse and almost smile. Almost.

  “It's his fault you nearly died, Claire,” Marlena coos, leaning down, touching my covered knee with her hand. Her red hair's scooped up in a tight bun, slicked back and perfect, and she's got on a nice, crisp business suit. I don't know how long I've been in here, but she doesn't seem frazzled anymore. She was a freaking wreck on that porch, spouting nonsense and making a bigger deal out of the situation than she needed to. Hopefully, she'll stay calm this time. If I have to deal with another freak-out from her, I don't know if there will be any relationship left between us to repair.

  “It's yours,” I correct her, dragging my hands onto my lap, flipping them over so I can stare at my palms. They're sweaty and shaky, pale and cold. I don't want to be like this anymore, I don't. Yeah, I still want to be a model. I still have to be because when you care this much about something, when you want it this bad, you have no choice but to follow the dream. Once it wraps your soul, you'll do anything for it. Anything. Even die. I'm still willing to take that risk. But I'm not suicidal. I never was. Why can't they understand that?

  The nurse pops her head in for a moment, sees I'm awake and says she's going to fetch Dr. Banerjee who I can only assume is Dr. Smirk. My family exchanges secretive glances, like I can't see them or something, like I'm not even fucking there.

  “Claire,” Marlena begins, getting closer, hovering over me. Much more of this, and I'm going to break. Do they not understand why I moved out in the first place? I need my own space. I need to make my own decisions. “I think tonight you should focus on getting some rest and tomorrow we can continue this discussion.” She pauses and wets her lips. “And if any of the doctors ask you any questions, I want you to answer honestly, okay? Right now, this is all about you. We're going to get you the help you need.”

  I ignore her. How does she expect me to respond to that? I've become another of her projects. Surprise, surprise.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Three days.”

  “Fine.” The room goes quiet because none of us know what to say to each other. I think, but I'm not sure, that my family's ashamed of me. They might not be willing to admit it to themselves, but it's true. It's written across their pale, blotchy skin, drilled into their eyes, set in the stance of their shoulders. And they don't believe me about anything – Emmett, the accident. I'm not even going to try to argue with them because it won't help. In fact, the more I think about, the more certain I am that it'll just make matters worse.

  When Dr. Banerjee walks in, I sit up as straight as I can and look her right in the eyes. The next words that come out of my mouth aren't easy, but they're necessary. I hate to do it, but I have to do it. They've given me no choice.

  “Excuse me,” I begin, making sure my voice is strong, doesn't waver. “But I'd like you to ask my family to leave.”

  “Okay, Claire, can you explain to us what happened just one more time?”

  I stare open-mouthed at the person in front of me, the hippy dippy shrink with the long, brown hair and the goatee. He's got on a tie dyed shirt under his white coat, and he just smiles and smiles and smiles, even when he's asking stupid fucking questions.

  “No, Donald, I don't think that I can,” I say to him, trying not to get pissy but failing miserably. I've been asked the same things over and over and over again. Most of the questions are so personal, hit so deep, that I refuse to answer them even once. Why did you stop eating, Claire? Do you love yourself, Claire? Do you often have dark thoughts, Claire? Every question has my name embedded somewhere in it, like I could forget. Like I could somehow erase the memory of who I am and where I come from. Those truths, those revelations that I had before I passed out are always there, always dancing around the edges of my mind, waiting for me to call on them. But I can't. Not here. And I certainly can't share them with these people. They don't know me; nobody does. “I'm tired of repeating myself. Send me to Crescent Springs or Bayview Hills or whatever for the seventy-two hours, so I can get the fuck out of here.”

  Donald doesn't look happy with my language and looks down at his notes.

  “It says here that you got up and tried to run away when you first woke up. Was there somewhere you were trying to go?” I wonder what would happen if I spit in Donald's face.

  “I already told you that, Donald,” I growl. Today has not been a good day for me. After my family left, Dr. Banerjee screwed around with my medicine and my feeding tube and gave me a massive stomachache after which she proceeded to send in douche bag after douche bag to grill me about what happened. Tomorrow, no matter what I say or do, I'm being shipped off to a clinic for further evaluation, and the one bright spot I thought I'd have is gone.

  Emmett.

  I can't reach him. They gave me one phone call today, so I dialed his number, but he never answered. I left a message, a short one because I was this close to bursting into tears, and hung up. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't call me back, so I don't know what's going to happen. I have to see him before I go, or I might just snap. Isn't it amazing how someone can walk into your life and become a part of you so fast that you don't even see it coming? Emmett has become that for me. I don't know if we're going to run off and get married or anything like that, but even as just a friend, he's good for me. I drum my fingers on my thigh.

  “Listen, I wasn't trying to run from anything. I got up to look at the cards and the flowers, and I fell. Why is that so hard for you people to understand?” Donald looks at me sympathetically. I wish he'd glare or shout or something, but I know that's never going to happen. All of these people are tiptoeing through the tulips, afraid to do or say anything that might possibly upset me.

  I miss Emmett's cute little house, my room, my designer gowns. I feel so ugly in here that it's hard for me to breathe. And that's just from the little bit I've seen. What happens when I get in front of a mirror? When Dr. Banerjee was looking in on me, I couldn't help but (grudgingly) notice how pretty her dark hair was, long and silky, full, healthy. That's when I remembered: I cut mine off, shaved it down to almost nothing. I'm scared to touch it or look at it, and I haven't quite admitted this to myself, but I'm terrified about seeing Emmett. Yeah, I need to and I want to, but shit. No girl wants her … boyfriend? Is Emmett a boyfriend? … to see her as a skeleton with a buzz cut. Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I don't show anything but irritation just in case it might freak Donald out.

  His smile stretches a bit wider, and he stands up, reaching out to shake my hand. I do it, but I don't smile back.

  “Well, that's all the information I need right now. Thank you, Claire. I'll let Dr. Banerjee know we're finished here.”

  “Do you think I'm crazy?” I ask him, kind of randomly. The question surprises even me. Donald pauses for a moment and rubs at his scruffy chin. When he looks over at me, his eyes are kind and his voice isn't as patronizing.

  “No, Claire. I don't think you're crazy at all. In fact,” Donald grins and glances around like he's expecting someone to walk in on us and discover us trading secrets. “You might actually be one of the sanest people I've ever met. At least you know what you want. That takes guts.” Donald winks at me and leaves the white door to swing shut behind him.

  Unfortunately, not everyone shares Donald's opinions.

  Dr. Banerjee thinks I'm emotionally unstable. I can see it in her eyes when she reenters the room, pausing next to the door and holding her tablet tight against her chest. When she smiles at me, the expression isn't very friendly. I don't bother to sit up to look at her and instead remain on my side, tubes pumping foreign substances into my body, feeling like an android in a sci-fi movie. And it isn't just the medical equipment, it's the way I'm being treated, like I don't have a mind of my own. I really, really hate that. If I actually did want to kill myself (which I don't), shouldn't it be my choic
e and nobody else's? Why the fucking inquisition? May as well be in jail.

  “How are you feeling, Claire?” she asks for the hundredth time that day. It's pretty much the only question she ever directs to me. I shrug and keep my face turned away from her, gaze focused on the beige walls of my room. The paint is so shiny and perfect, it's like I'm not even in a hospital but a hotel room. I can't even imagine what the bill looks like. And therein lies my conundrum. If I want to stay on my father's insurance, I'm stuck with the rights of a minor. Some bullshit loophole about me being barely eighteen and blah blah blah. To fully be treated like an adult, I have to pay for all of this. With no job. Shit.

  Dr. Banerjee shifts and sighs, letting out a small puff of air like she's being terribly troubled by having to check in on me.

  “You have a visitor,” she says, and my head snaps over to her so fast that I get dizzy and have to close my eyes for a moment. I know before she says the name who it is. “Emmett Sinclair.” Smirk, MD pauses and looks to the side, like she's trying to figure out exactly what it is she wants to say to me. “Your parents specifically requested that he not be allowed to see you.”

  “Yeah. And I'm eighteen years old,” I repeat. Maybe if I say it enough, they'll get it. They let me call him anyway. I touch a hand to my chest. Already, it's beating away at my ribs, desperate to get out and soar. Why? Am I love with Emmett? I don't know. It hasn't been long enough. But I know that right now, I need him.

  “Claire … ” she begins, and I jump in before she can say anything else. I get the feeling that Dr. Banerjee is the type of person that, once she's said something aloud, never changes her mind. Even if she's wrong. Even if she wants to. So, even though I don't think she likes me, thinks I'm nuttier than a bag of cashews, I let my heart out for a second and see what it has to say.

  “If it wasn't for Emmett, I'd be dead right now,” I promise her and forge on before she can make any judgments on the meaning of that phrase. “Not because I meant to die or tried to kill myself, but because I would've never realized that anything was wrong, not even with something like this. When I woke up yesterday, I was a different person. I was reborn, Dr. Banerjee. Without Emmett Sinclair, I would've just been lucky. Had a second chance to screw things up.” I swallow hard. This isn't easy for me to say, and in all honesty, I don't believe with my mind half the things my heart is saying, but I let it keeping talking. If it'll bring Emmett in here, I don't care. “I need him. Please.”

  I stare into her dark eyes and hold on, hoping she'll see how important this is to me, maybe stop being a bureaucratic doctor for a second and be a person. The smirk drops away and her expression falters. I don't know if she feels sorry for me, standing up there in her pristine, perfect coat with her beautiful olive skin that glows, even under the harsh florescent lighting, if she sees me laying here pale and sallow and ugly. Hideous. A freak.

  I realize absently that I hate myself. Maybe that's my problem? I just hate my own soul. How fucked up is that?

  “Since you are technically an adult, I suppose I can't in good conscious refuse him.” Dr. Banerjee checks her tablet again and shakes her head. She isn't happy about it, but she'll do it. Thank God. I sit up straight and try to smile. When she looks up and sees my expression, her eyes get wider and her sharp, curvy brows raise substantially. Wow. Looks like even the good doctor has the ability to be surprised. “I'll tell the nurse to bring him in.” Dr. Banerjee reaches down for the door handle and then pauses, shaking her head like she can't quite figure something out. At first, I think she's going to ask me something, but instead, she just walks away and leaves me with sweaty palms and two round, gray eyes full of tears.

  I try to hold them back as I wait, but I can't. And then I'm ugly crying big time, sobbing and balling with liquid soaking into the top of my hospital gown, crashing down to the crisp, white sheets. I lift my hands to my eyes, catch sight of my bandages and start to wail. It's sad and kind of pathetic, but it just happens and I don't know why. Maybe it's that circle of pain, cutting into my heart just a little bit, bleeding some of my melancholy out of me.

  If anyone needs proof of life outside this small realm of being that we call existence, then they need look no further than Claire Simone. I am a perfect living example of a soul who's suffering must've taken place in another life. How can I be so sad when nothing terrible has happened to me? Okay, yeah, this experience wasn't the greatest joyride for me, but it was just a product of my previous unhappiness. I'm sad. So sad. Is it fashion? Modeling? Rejection? Or are these, too, just side effects of something else? My soul hurts so bad that I feel like it's going to crack it half and erase me from existence. I can't even breathe anymore without feeling a little stitch of anguish, a small thrill of agony.

  I'm whining and choking and balling so much that I don't hear the door open, don't hear Emmett's footsteps as he moves across the white linoleum towards me. It's only when he speaks and my ears tune out the rest of the world for him that I know I'm home.

  “Oh, Claire.” Strong arms encircle me, and it terrifies me how little I feel inside of them. Has it always been this way? Why do I feel so small all of a sudden? Fresh clean scent overwhelms me, like summer rain, like a warm shower, like a garden at the start of spring. My cheek presses against a firm chest and my ears pick up the gentle rhythm of a frantic heart. “I'm so sorry,” Emmett whispers against my hair, breath hot against my nearly bare scalp. It's then and only then that I feel self-conscious in front of him and try to pull away.

  He won't let me go.

  Instead he keeps me there, gently but firmly, and speaks to me with a voice that isn't condescending, isn't irritated, isn't patronizing. It just is. Just like Emmett. He likes to just be. I want to be like him. I envy him.

  “I was at the treehouse when you called and I didn't have any reception. There was a horrible storm the other night and … ” He pauses and his breath catches tight, slowing his breathing for a split second before it resumes at a normal speed. I think he wants to cry, but he won't. He's strong for me. I'm not sure why. I mean, we haven't known each other very long, but it doesn't seem to matter to him. I feel like I should be scared that I'm going to scare him off, that he's going to realize I'm way too much trouble to be worth the time, but I'm not. Not when he's holding me like this anyway. “I wanted it to be just like we left it, so when you got out … ”

  “You mean if,” I whisper, voice soft and choked with tears. “If I got out. You didn't think I would, did you? You thought I was going to die?”

  “I had no idea,” Emmett breathes. I want to pull back, so I can look at him, but I can't bear to separate myself from his body. I just want to melt into him, blur together until there's no me and you, just us. “I broke the window and climbed in the room, kicked the door in and found you lying in a puddle of blood. I thought you were already dead.” Emmett stops talking abruptly as I nuzzle into the red fabric of his sweatshirt. He's choking on melancholy, I can tell. I've done it before. “And then the ambulance came, and your parents, and I just … ”

  “I'm glad you're here,” I say, and I swear, I can hear him smiling above me.

  “Your dad tried to shoot me,” he tells me and that bit of humor is enough that I can finally pull away and look up at his face.

  And, oh God. The tears start to pour again, moistening my cheeks, sticking to my lips, so that when Emmett leans forward and kisses me, our mouths both taste salt. Heat explodes inside of me and my tiny, skinny, ugly fingers reach up and grasp his shirt, wishing I were strong and full bodied, so I could pull him onto this bed and make love to him. As of right now, I'm hardly capable of anything. I don't even know how we … did it at the treehouse. He must've been so, so careful with me, holding me like a piece of fine crystal. God, that must've been stressful. I want to get stronger for him suddenly, work hard so he can hold me and not be afraid to break me. I still don't care about myself yet, that will come later, much later. Right now, I just need Emmett.

  When we pull apart, it's r
eluctantly, and my body feels so cold that I start to shake. The IV fluids aren't doing much to help, making me feel each and every vein, highlighting them with chilly liquid. Emmett tries to wrap me in his arms again, but I won't let him. I need to stare at his face, take in the contours, the calm, the passion for life.

  He looks good, a little scruffy maybe, but good. It doesn't look like he's shaved since I last saw him, so there's a bit of fine stubble on his jaw, a shade or two darker than the tufts of chestnut hair that peak out from under the edges of his black beanie. His eyes, though, wow. Just fucking wow. They slice straight through me, down to my rapidly beating heart, and I know without asking that Emmett thinks I'm beautiful. I don't feel it, though. Right now, I couldn't feel any more hideous.

  I lift my hands up to my scalp, to the frizzy tufts of red hair there, and I watch him follow my motion with a sad smile, reaching out to take my bandaged wrists in his fingers.

  “I'm sorry I'm so putrid,” I whisper and Emmett laughs, not cruelly but gently, like the wind in the trees, a sound that's neither judgmental or accusatory, just alive. Truthful.

  “You couldn't be as far from it if you tried. I think you're perfect, Claire.”

  “I'm half-dead.”

  “Aren't we all? The best we can do is embrace the half-alive bit, see where it takes us because eventually, we all succumb to that other side of ourselves. We just have to make sure that when we do,” Emmett puts the fingers of one hand under my chin and leans in close to me, teasing my mouth with his lips. “We have no regrets, that we go knowing we spent ever last drop.” Emmett kisses me soft, kills me with his heart and his heat and his lips. I start to cry again, but they're quiet tears, just a few leftover drops. I hope that once they're gone, they never come back.

  “My dad tried to shoot you? For real?” Emmett chuckles and this time, he's just being silly.