Color Me Pretty

see the inner me; it didn't matter what I looked like on the outside. And he's the only one that tried to encourage me instead of boss me around.
    My father's face puffs up, but he keeps his brown eyes on the ugly flower painting opposite him.
    “That boy is a freak,” he snarls while Marlena sighs and rubs at her forehead. My mother looks down and away, like she can't possibly handle any direct eye contact with her mentally confused corpse daughter.
    “That boy is a blessing,” I say and mean it. At times, yeah, Emmett did piss me off, but so did everyone else. So they continue to piss me off. I think of the map to the treehouse and almost smile. Almost.
    “It's his fault you nearly died, Claire,” Marlena coos, leaning down, touching my covered knee with her hand. Her red hair's scooped up in a tight bun, slicked back and perfect, and she's got on a nice, crisp business suit. I don't know how long I've been in here, but she doesn't seem frazzled anymore. She was a freaking wreck on that porch, spouting nonsense and making a bigger deal out of the situation than she needed to. Hopefully, she'll stay calm this time. If I have to deal with another freak-out from her, I don't know if there will be any relationship left between us to repair.
    “It's yours,” I correct her, dragging my hands onto my lap, flipping them over so I can stare at my palms. They're sweaty and shaky, pale and cold. I don't want to be like this anymore, I don't. Yeah, I still want to be a model. I still have to be because when you care this much about something, when you want it this bad, you have no choice but to follow the dream. Once it wraps your soul, you'll do anything for it. Anything. Even die. I'm still willing to take that risk. But I'm not suicidal. I never was. Why can't they understand that?
    The nurse pops her head in for a moment, sees I'm awake and says she's going to fetch Dr. Banerjee who I can only assume is Dr. Smirk. My family exchanges secretive glances, like I can't see them or something, like I'm not even fucking there.
    “Claire,” Marlena begins, getting closer, hovering over me. Much more of this, and I'm going to break. Do they not understand why I moved out in the first place? I need my own space. I need to make my own decisions. “I think tonight you should focus on getting some rest and tomorrow we can continue this discussion.” She pauses and wets her lips. “And if any of the doctors ask you any questions, I want you to answer honestly, okay? Right now, this is all about you. We're going to get you the help you need.”
    I ignore her. How does she expect me to respond to that? I've become another of her projects. Surprise, surprise.
    “How long have I been out?”
    “Three days.”
    “Fine.” The room goes quiet because none of us know what to say to each other. I think, but I'm not sure, that my family's ashamed of me. They might not be willing to admit it to themselves, but it's true. It's written across their pale, blotchy skin, drilled into their eyes, set in the stance of their shoulders. And they don't believe me about anything – Emmett, the accident. I'm not even going to try to argue with them because it won't help. In fact, the more I think about, the more certain I am that it'll just make matters worse.
    When Dr. Banerjee walks in, I sit up as straight as I can and look her right in the eyes. The next words that come out of my mouth aren't easy, but they're necessary. I hate to do it, but I have to do it. They've given me no choice.
    “Excuse me,” I begin, making sure my voice is strong, doesn't waver. “But I'd like you to ask my family to leave.”

“Okay, Claire, can you explain to us what happened just one more time?”
    I stare open-mouthed at the person in front of me, the hippy dippy shrink with the long, brown hair and the goatee. He's got on a tie dyed shirt under his white coat, and he just smiles and smiles and smiles, even when he's asking stupid fucking questions.
    “No, Donald, I don't think that I can,” I say to him, trying not to get pissy but failing miserably. I've been asked the same things over and over and over again. Most of the questions are so personal, hit so deep, that I refuse to answer them even once. Why did you stop eating, Claire? Do you love yourself, Claire? Do you often have dark thoughts, Claire? Every question has my name embedded somewhere in it, like I could forget. Like I could somehow erase the memory of who I am and where I come from.