Color Me Pretty

reach up and I destroy my picture with a simple swipe of the hand. She was for me and nobody else anyway. I make a mental painting of her in my mind for safekeeping.
    For awhile there, I'm feeling good.
    And then we arrive at Crescent Springs, pulling into the parking lot and maneuvering under the awning up front. The place looks an awful lot like a hotel, only some of the rooms have bars on the windows … My heart leaps into my chest. If they try to trap me in there, they'll regret it. I can't even imagine the feeling of true incarceration. At least at the hospital, there was some semblance of freedom, like if I really, really wanted to, I could get up and walk out the door. If I see iron covering my window, I may actually have a mental breakdown.
    Sweat starts to pour down my back and soaks into the gray fabric of the seat cushion. Meanwhile, the male nurse climbs out and disappears, leaving me alone with the driver for a few minutes. When he comes back, there's a woman with a clipboard (no iPad this time?) who shows me inside and makes me run through some paperwork. To be honest with you, I don't understand any of it and end up just giving her a blank stare. My signature goes where she tells me she needs it. I probably should read all the fine print, but I'm just not up to it. If I have to, I'll break the fuck out of this place and disappear. People have run away for less. As long as I take Emmett with me. Without him, running would be pointless because then I'd never be able to find my way home.
    After we're finished, the woman leads me to my room, blonde ponytail bouncing cheerfully behind her, swinging like a horse's tail, as she proceeds to explain the rules to me. No locks on the door, regular and random check-ins, no electronics, etc., etc., and so on and so forth. Basically, every cliché that ever existed all rolled into one. I'm actually surprised when there aren't any straps or chains on the bed. The room really does look like a hotel (no bars on my windows), and it's even got its own bathroom – which of course, does not lock. It's such an anticlimactic moment that I just stand there in the center of the pale, pink bedroom and stare out the window at the slightly damp surface of the parking lot.
    The woman yammers on for a little while longer, hands me a brochure and then just leaves.
    Silence descends on the room, thick and cloying, forcing me to switch on the piece of shit TV, so I can have some company. I miss Emmett so terribly that it hurts inside. Wrapping my arms around my chest, I shuffle over to the bed and plop down on the itchy comforter.
    When I glance at the brochure, I see that there's a schedule tucked inside, one that has my name scrawled across the top of it. I'm sure the woman explained it to me, but I wasn't really listening. Why should I? I'm being held here against my will, and I refuse to be happy about it.
    There are meal times, of course, which make my stomach knot with dread, along with some mandatory group counseling sessions. Two a day for the next three days. The first one starts in an hour. I crumple the page up in my hand and lay back, doing my best to breathe through my mouth. The whole place smells a little like iodine and antiseptic, and it's kind of making me sick.
    I lay there for awhile before realizing what I saw when I walked in here: a phone. My cell is gone, have no clue where it went. I'm guessing my parents took that, too. It's crossed my mind briefly that I may not be able to get my stuff back. If they're as mad at me as it seems, then they could refuse to give me back my clothes and furniture as a punishment. I mean, my dad is the one that paid for them. God, can this get any worse? Probably. But it can also get better.
    I slide along the edge of the bed and pause next to the nightstand. The phone is super old school, like decades behind schedule. It's probably older than me. I stare at it for awhile, take a deep breath and then pick it up, twirling the curly cord around one finger while I dial Emmett's number. It's kind of impressive that I even remember it. My memory of the last few weeks is a little spotty and unclear. Maybe it's a sign? I read once that the mind only remembers things that we deem important, that we want to keep. I mean, I don't think that's necessarily true, but it's a pleasant thought.
    “Hello?” Even the sound of his voice makes me smile.
    “Emmett.” That's the only word I can get out. I want him so bad right now, it's becoming a