Color Me Pretty

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