Color Me Pretty

Those truths, those revelations that I had before I passed out are always there, always dancing around the edges of my mind, waiting for me to call on them. But I can't. Not here. And I certainly can't share them with these people. They don't know me; nobody does. “I'm tired of repeating myself. Send me to Crescent Springs or Bayview Hills or whatever for the seventy-two hours, so I can get the fuck out of here.”
    Donald doesn't look happy with my language and looks down at his notes.
    “It says here that you got up and tried to run away when you first woke up. Was there somewhere you were trying to go?” I wonder what would happen if I spit in Donald's face.
    “I already told you that, Donald ,” I growl. Today has not been a good day for me. After my family left, Dr. Banerjee screwed around with my medicine and my feeding tube and gave me a massive stomachache after which she proceeded to send in douche bag after douche bag to grill me about what happened. Tomorrow, no matter what I say or do, I'm being shipped off to a clinic for further evaluation, and the one bright spot I thought I'd have is gone.
    Emmett.
    I can't reach him. They gave me one phone call today, so I dialed his number, but he never answered. I left a message, a short one because I was this close to bursting into tears, and hung up. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't call me back, so I don't know what's going to happen. I have to see him before I go, or I might just snap. Isn't it amazing how someone can walk into your life and become a part of you so fast that you don't even see it coming? Emmett has become that for me. I don't know if we're going to run off and get married or anything like that, but even as just a friend, he's good for me. I drum my fingers on my thigh.
    “Listen, I wasn't trying to run from anything. I got up to look at the cards and the flowers, and I fell. Why is that so hard for you people to understand?” Donald looks at me sympathetically. I wish he'd glare or shout or something, but I know that's never going to happen. All of these people are tiptoeing through the tulips, afraid to do or say anything that might possibly upset me.
    I miss Emmett's cute little house, my room, my designer gowns. I feel so ugly in here that it's hard for me to breathe. And that's just from the little bit I've seen. What happens when I get in front of a mirror? When Dr. Banerjee was looking in on me, I couldn't help but (grudgingly) notice how pretty her dark hair was, long and silky, full, healthy. That's when I remembered: I cut mine off, shaved it down to almost nothing. I'm scared to touch it or look at it, and I haven't quite admitted this to myself, but I'm terrified about seeing Emmett. Yeah, I need to and I want to, but shit. No girl wants her … boyfriend? Is Emmett a boyfriend? … to see her as a skeleton with a buzz cut. Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I don't show anything but irritation just in case it might freak Donald out.
    His smile stretches a bit wider, and he stands up, reaching out to shake my hand. I do it, but I don't smile back.
    “Well, that's all the information I need right now. Thank you, Claire. I'll let Dr. Banerjee know we're finished here.”
    “Do you think I'm crazy?” I ask him, kind of randomly. The question surprises even me. Donald pauses for a moment and rubs at his scruffy chin. When he looks over at me, his eyes are kind and his voice isn't as patronizing.
    “No, Claire. I don't think you're crazy at all. In fact,” Donald grins and glances around like he's expecting someone to walk in on us and discover us trading secrets. “You might actually be one of the sanest people I've ever met. At least you know what you want. That takes guts.” Donald winks at me and leaves the white door to swing shut behind him.
    Unfortunately, not everyone shares Donald's opinions.
    Dr. Banerjee thinks I'm emotionally unstable. I can see it in her eyes when she reenters the room, pausing next to the door and holding her tablet tight against her chest. When she smiles at me, the expression isn't very friendly. I don't bother to sit up to look at her and instead remain on my side, tubes pumping foreign substances into my body, feeling like an android in a sci-fi movie. And it isn't just the medical equipment, it's the way I'm being treated, like I don't have a mind of my own. I really, really hate that. If I actually did want to kill myself (which I don't), shouldn't it be my choice and nobody else's? Why the