Color Me Pretty

college in the fall? If so, what do I study? Should I take up photography? Design?
    As I work my way through possible scenarios, I get the sense that life, if done right, is more questions than answers, more possibility than certainty. That scares the crap out of me.
    I scoot forward and pick up the fabric, dragging it away from the table and laying it out on the floor. There's an awful lot of it, like enough to cover a king sized bed. I stand over it, wondering if I should get dressed. Part of me is desperate to, so I don't accidentally catch sight of my withering body. The other half of me thinks I should stay this way, get used to being in this foreign skin. I am not fat. I am skinny. Too skinny. I swallow hard and glance over my shoulder at the kitchen. Somehow, I know that I should be proud of myself, that for an anorexic, I'm making quick progress, but I actually feel like a miserable failure. If I hadn't made so many mistakes in the first place, I wouldn't be here. How can I be proud of climbing out of a hole I, myself, dug?
    I sigh and settle on a glass of iced tea. It's not food, no, and it doesn't have any calories, but it's the best I can do right now. I drink the whole thing and set it on the counter, pausing as the doorbell sounds and echoes around the quiet house.
    That scares the crap out of me.
    One, quick peep through the curtains, and I spot my sister's car in the driveway.
    Fuck.
    I could pretend that nobody's here, sure, but she won't stop coming; she'll never stop coming.
    I storm into Emmett's room and grab one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. When I finally do open the door, Marlena seems surprised to see me there.
    Her hair is down today and gently curled around her face, making her blue eyes pop from her pale face. She's got on a form fitting black dress and a string of pearls. Pretty inappropriate for early afternoon. I wonder where it is she's going. A cocktail party? That's what it looks like, though I doubt it. I bet she wore that ensemble to work. I close my eyes and try to stop passing judgment on my sister. I'm mad at her, still hate her, but I've got to stop doing this. Bringing down others will not lift me up.
    “What.” It's not even really a question, more like a statement. My sister shifts uncomfortably and opens her mouth, closes it. She doesn't even know what to say. Wow. That's a first. I tell her this. “Cat got your tongue? The Amazing M? I thought you always got straight to the point, guess I was wrong.” I start to shut the door, but she puts out her hand and blocks me. I might be angry, but I'm not barbaric. Slamming Marlena's hand in the door might me make feel better temporarily, but in the long run, it would just make me sick.
    I reopen the door, but I don't let her in. I stand there with the purple wood separating us, and I glare, eyes narrowed, lips pursed tight. This doesn't phase Marlena. She just takes a deep breath and forges on, once again trapped in her idealistic view of the world. I am her project and she refuses to fail. I almost want to, just to spite her. But then I think of Emmett. A smile nearly hits my lips, but I force it back.
    “I think you're making a mistake,” she tells me, not unexpectedly. I start to close the door again, but she grabs the frame and practically shoves her way into the house. I step back, startled and end up with my thighs pressed against the couch and my sister looming in the front entrance, eyes flickering over to the sewing machine, to the open bedroom drawer, and then down to the boxers I'm wearing. Her face gets weird.
    “Say it,” I growl and she snaps her gaze to mine. “Say it and prepare to never fucking see me again. Belittle Emmett, be disgusted with him for sleeping with me. I know you want to.” I raise myself up, puff out my chest a bit. This is beyond normal sibling rivalry; this has now crossed that line and dropped straight over the edge.
    “Claire,” she begins, but since she's being patronizing again, I cut her off.
    “Marlena.” The way I say her name gets her attention; I can tell. “Listen to me and listen good, relay this back to mom and dad. I,” I point at my chest. “I make my own decisions. All of them. Even whether I live or die.” My sister starts to argue. If she didn't, I'd think she was possessed. I let it go, but I don't listen to her. Instead, I speak over her, and I'm proud to hear the strength in my voice. I look weak, feel weak, but maybe I'm not so weak? “And I choose to