Color Me Pretty

my teeth as I try to regain control of my basic motor functions. Ones that I should've never lost in the first place. I dig through my skull looking for memories, trying to pull together a play by play of what happened.
    An accident. A mistake.
    Anger hits me then, like a freight train it barrels through me and makes me dizzy. The power of the emotion is so strong that when I finally do get a glass of water lifted to my lips, I have a hard time swallowing past the rage in the back of my throat. Marlena came in and did what she always does, sticking her nose in other people's business. I want to blame her for this, but I know deep down that I'm the only one at fault. I didn't do it on purpose, but I did do it. It was me that refused to put food to my lips, chose instead to put a blade to my skin.
    My vision clears, but I won't look at my mother. I just can't right now. Instead, I focus straight ahead, at the door. In walks a doctor, a beautiful one with a full figure and a head of long, dark, silky hair. Already, I dislike her. She has sharp eyes and a small mouth that's set in a smirk, but not at me necessarily. I can tell from the lines around her mouth that this is just the way she is. Not good. I know what this looks like.
    I can hardly get my brain to form the word, but my lips move. Suicide. Luckily, nobody sees this.
    The doctor swings a tablet out from under her arm and flicks the screen with her finger. She's using an iPad instead of a clipboard. Fancy. Guilt starts to creep in then. This must've been very expensive. I can't do this to my family. I have to get out of here now. My fingers slide across the bed and touch the mass of tubes. It's only then that I realize there's one that isn't in my arm. My head flops to the left, and I see it.
    “Mrs. Simone?” the doctor asks, coming forward and holding out her hand. I hear the slight creak of a chair and assume my mother is standing to greet her, so they can talk about me like I'm not here. I don't like that. I don't like that at all. It's my life, and no matter how stupid I'm being, how reckless, how careless, those are my choices to make. My eyes remain locked on that … that thing. I try to reach up to check, just to be sure, just so I know what's really happening to me. Just so I know that I'm attached to a feeding tube.
    I start to panic.
    “What's going to happen now?” I hear my mother say, but I'm hardly listening. Instead, I'm trying to guess how many calories are in that bag hanging nearby, full of some fatty, disgusting goop that's being pumped through my fucking nostril and into my stomach.
    A whimper escapes my throat and both women turn to look at me.
    “Hello there, Claire,” says Smirk, MD, looking at me like she knows how badly I'm suffering and doesn't care. Yeah, I decided that maybe I kind of wanted to get help, but I don't want it forced on me. Oh God, I just want to make my own decisions.
    But I'm weak, oh so weak, and there isn't any fight in my body, just my spirit.
    “I want Emmett.” I croak these words out, force them through a tight, dry throat and out my chapped lips. “I want to see Emmett.” My mom looks horrified, face scrunched up like she's found out I've got brain damage or something. I barely look at her. Instead, I'm staring at the doctor. “I'm eighteen years old. I'm not a minor.”
    Dr. Smirk gives me a patronizing look.
    “Glad to see you're awake, Claire. The nurse will be in shortly to check your vitals.” She doesn't acknowledge my statement and instead reaches out a hand and places it on my mother's shoulder, drawing my mom's green eyes over to her and off of me. Thank God. Right now, my mother's looks are less than pleasant. I can't tell if she's irate with me or if she's just happy to see me alive. “I'd like to talk to you in the hallway for a moment if you wouldn't mind. We got a call back from Bayview Hills.” My mother nods and reaches down to pick up her purse.
    I watch them go with rage boiling inside of me, cooking my soul, charring it black.
    I want to reach up and wrap my fingers around the feeding tube, yank it out of my stomach and throat and storm out of there, but I'm not a fucking TV trope, so instead I just sit there and hold back a scream.
    If they send me to Bayview Hills, I'll walk right back out and keep doing what I'm doing. I don't want their kind of help. I don't want rules and regulations and people hovering over me with clipboards. I want Emmett Sinclair and his easy smile,