Color Me Pretty

I can't think of anything but his words and what they could mean for us. My mind is completely and utterly distracted from ED's and depression and counseling. So much so that when the time rolls around, I completely forget about the group thing and end up with someone rapping on my door.
    I get up, feeling irritated, and wrench it open.
    There's a girl standing in front of me with dark eyes and bandages on her arms, twin to mine. She smiles at me; I don't smile back. She's way prettier than me, with long, honey colored curls and a soft mouth that's pink and moist. Mine, on the other hand, is dry as the desert. First thing I do when I leave here is get some lipstick.
    “Hi there,” she says as I examine her from head to toe. She's got round, green eyes and skin the color of fresh cream. This is not someone who shares my … afflictions. She's got problems of her own, but at least they haven't turned her into a walking corpse.
    “Hi.” That's all she's getting out of me. I cross my arms over my chest and wait. I'm not here to make friends with crazy people. This isn't a fucking hollywood film; this is my life. I shift a bit, feeling uncomfortable in my baggy tee and sweats. I don't even have a bra on. Don't need one, I guess. With all the weight I've lost, I've gone from wearing a size C to being unable to fit an A cup. Pathetic. I feel so ugly right now …
    “You must be Claire Simone?” she asks as I continue to stare. I can't help but notice that she's got on a pair of Jimmy Choo flats and a Diane von Furstenberg lace skirt. And here I stand in hand-me-downs. I cross my arms over my chest.
    “Yeah, so?”
    “So, Dr. Hial asked me to come up and check on you.” The girl shrugs, but keeps smiling. “You're missing group. If you don't come, the state can decide to increase your evaluation time.” She holds out her hand to me. “I'm Kylie North. Nice to meet you.”
    Reluctantly, I reach out and take her hand.
    “So which one are you?” I ask as I follow her out and close my door behind me.
    “Hmm?” she asks as she leads me down the hallway and towards the elevators. When she walks, her curls bounce like crazy. Standing next to her, I feel like a golem or something. I mean, Kylie's maybe five five and I'm just a hair over six feet. She's so tiny and cute and feminine, and I'm … I'm just not. I don't even feel like a girl right now. I feel like an it. A big, spindly, balding it.
    “You know, in books and movies, there are always the specific archetypes that the main character meets in the crazy house.” I start to tick them off on my fingers. “The mean girl, the childlike character, the brownnoser, and the rebel. Which one are you?” Kylie pauses at the elevator and selects a floor. When she looks over at me, her smile's turned into a grin.
    “I think you've got it all mixed up,” she says, and I raise my brows. “I'm the heroine, the one who really isn't crazy and was placed here with the most corrupt intentions imaginable.” She chuckles and points at my flat chest. “And you're the rebel, I can tell right away.” When Kylie steps into the elevator, I follow. As cheesy as it sounds, I feel a little bit less lonely all of a sudden. God, I wish I had girlfriends again. Jenn and Leanne and me … we've had our problems. Mostly because of me, I think. I need to call them, make up. Having those few extra shoulders to cry on couldn't hurt, right? I wonder what they think of all this, if they knew all along.
    “I'm hardly a rebel,” I tell her as I lean against the handrail and avoid looking into the mirrors that line the walls. “Just a girl who wanted something so bad, she let it blind her.”
    “At least you can admit that,” Kylie says, touching her bandaged wrists reverently. “That takes guts.”
    “It takes rebirth,” I tell her.
    “I know.”
    We become friends immediately.
    If you've ever met someone you connect with, you don't need time to get to know them. You just … you just know. It's like that with me and Emmett, too. As of right now, I'd have to consider him my best friend. As far as love goes, I can't lay claim to that. If I can't love myself, what gives me the right to pledge my love for someone else? They're mutually exclusive. There's no way in hell those two things can happen at the same time.
    “I cut myself with a piece of glass to feel things. I didn't mean to die.”
    “I cut myself with a knife to feel things. I meant to die.” Kylie adjusts the high-necked