Paint Me Beautiful
food go without a fight.
Hot acid burns my throat, makes me choke, forces me up to the tap for water. That comes up, too, right alongside the next batch. I'm relieved when I see it because it means I know where I'm at in my purging. Each time I recognize something in the water of the beautifully white porcelain toilet, the one I scrubbed for almost an hour earlier, I feel good because I can scratch that off my list.
Look at me, draped over the toilet, hair down, freshly washed and smelling of peaches, clothed in a white Valentino gown, one that cost my father several days of hard work, look at me. Would this make a pretty picture? I wonder as I slide back on my knees, crawling out the door and over to my desk where I grab a notepad. I lean against the wooden leg and start to write. What I put down on paper isn't a suicide note, not in the traditional sense of the word, but to someone else it might seem like one. After all, I am killing myself, aren't I? If I don't know I'm doing it, does it still count?
I sign the page so hard that the ink from my red pen bursts and splatters like blood across the white fabric of my dress. I pick up the notebook and throw it against the wall so hard that it leaves a dent. My hands turn into fists and slam into the ground.
I don't want to be this anymore.
I don't want to do this.
But I don't know how to stop.
God help me, I don't know how to fucking stop.
When dawn breaks, I slip out of my dress, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed beside Emmett.
He looks so cute when he's sleeping, chestnut hair curling softly around his face, sexy lips parted, eyelashes fluttering. I put my hands into a prayer position and slide them underneath my cheek. I want to lay there and stare at him all day, absorb every detail, so that I can determine why he is the way he is. He was hurting before, and now he's okay, so it is possible to heal, but I don't understand it. Maybe I never will.
I let my head sink into Emmett's pillow, taking long, slow breaths, pulling his fresh, clean scent into my nose. I let it linger there, tasting a hint of sweat in the back of my mouth, a tangy aftertaste from the sex last night. I reach out and poke Emmett's lower lip with a shaking finger. He moans a bit, but he doesn't stir. I fight the urge to join him in sleep. I don't want to sleep, not anymore. Sleeping means dreaming, and dreaming is what got me to this point in the first place – all within a ten day span. Or so I think. In reality, I've been messing with my internal framework for awhile, sliding down a slippery slope and gaining speed until I was moving too fast for the naked eye to see. I got here through a careful teardown of self-restraint and logicality.
I yawn and pull my hand away from Emmett's face, tucking it back under my cheek and trying to push back the introspective bullshit. It obviously hasn't done me much good before. Go away and leave me alone, I plead as my eyelids flutter closed. I fight to keep them open, but my emotional freak-out has cost me a lot of energy that I don't have.
The next thing I realize, I'm waking up to the smell of coffee and the sight of Emmett's smiling face.
“ Good morning, beautiful,” he tells me as he hands me a blue mug with a moose on the side. Made from 100% recycled materials, it says in small print beneath the animal's outline. The longer I'm here, the more I realize that the environment is an important subject to Emmett. His alarm clock is solar powered as is his stereo and his MP3 player. He collects rainwater and moisture in wooden barrels that are lined up along the back of the house to use in watering his plants. And half the items in this room are made of recycled something or other. My respect for Emmett grows as I sniff the black liquid and find myself overwhelmed with cravings I haven't had in months. “French roast,” he tells me confidently. “Two calories per eight ounces. I didn't measure it out, but I bet there's not much more than that in there.” I smile.
“ Thanks,” I say, trying to stop my brain from going over last night's binge. I purged, so I should be okay, but I can't help but feel like there's an extra lump of flesh hanging from my midsection. That is impossible, Claire. Don't be ridiculous. I sniff the coffee again and wish that I could let the experience stop there. It smells rich and luxurious, like something I most definitely should not be indulging in. If I drink it, should I purge it, too? I look at Emmett
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