Color Me Pretty

no further than Claire Simone. I am a perfect living example of a soul who's suffering must've taken place in another life. How can I be so sad when nothing terrible has happened to me? Okay, yeah, this experience wasn't the greatest joyride for me, but it was just a product of my previous unhappiness. I'm sad. So sad. Is it fashion? Modeling? Rejection? Or are these, too, just side effects of something else? My soul hurts so bad that I feel like it's going to crack it half and erase me from existence. I can't even breathe anymore without feeling a little stitch of anguish, a small thrill of agony.
    I'm whining and choking and balling so much that I don't hear the door open, don't hear Emmett's footsteps as he moves across the white linoleum towards me. It's only when he speaks and my ears tune out the rest of the world for him that I know I'm home.
    “Oh, Claire.” Strong arms encircle me, and it terrifies me how little I feel inside of them. Has it always been this way? Why do I feel so small all of a sudden? Fresh clean scent overwhelms me, like summer rain, like a warm shower, like a garden at the start of spring. My cheek presses against a firm chest and my ears pick up the gentle rhythm of a frantic heart. “I'm so sorry,” Emmett whispers against my hair, breath hot against my nearly bare scalp. It's then and only then that I feel self-conscious in front of him and try to pull away.
    He won't let me go.
    Instead he keeps me there, gently but firmly, and speaks to me with a voice that isn't condescending, isn't irritated, isn't patronizing. It just is. Just like Emmett. He likes to just be. I want to be like him. I envy him.
    “I was at the treehouse when you called and I didn't have any reception. There was a horrible storm the other night and … ” He pauses and his breath catches tight, slowing his breathing for a split second before it resumes at a normal speed. I think he wants to cry, but he won't. He's strong for me. I'm not sure why. I mean, we haven't known each other very long, but it doesn't seem to matter to him. I feel like I should be scared that I'm going to scare him off, that he's going to realize I'm way too much trouble to be worth the time, but I'm not. Not when he's holding me like this anyway. “I wanted it to be just like we left it, so when you got out … ”
    “You mean if ,” I whisper, voice soft and choked with tears. “ If I got out. You didn't think I would, did you? You thought I was going to die?”
    “I had no idea,” Emmett breathes. I want to pull back, so I can look at him, but I can't bear to separate myself from his body. I just want to melt into him, blur together until there's no me and you, just us. “I broke the window and climbed in the room, kicked the door in and found you lying in a puddle of blood. I thought you were already dead.” Emmett stops talking abruptly as I nuzzle into the red fabric of his sweatshirt. He's choking on melancholy, I can tell. I've done it before. “And then the ambulance came, and your parents, and I just … ”
    “I'm glad you're here,” I say, and I swear, I can hear him smiling above me.
    “Your dad tried to shoot me,” he tells me and that bit of humor is enough that I can finally pull away and look up at his face.
    And, oh God. The tears start to pour again, moistening my cheeks, sticking to my lips, so that when Emmett leans forward and kisses me, our mouths both taste salt. Heat explodes inside of me and my tiny, skinny, ugly fingers reach up and grasp his shirt, wishing I were strong and full bodied, so I could pull him onto this bed and make love to him. As of right now, I'm hardly capable of anything. I don't even know how we … did it at the treehouse. He must've been so, so careful with me, holding me like a piece of fine crystal. God, that must've been stressful. I want to get stronger for him suddenly, work hard so he can hold me and not be afraid to break me. I still don't care about myself yet, that will come later, much later. Right now, I just need Emmett.
    When we pull apart, it's reluctantly, and my body feels so cold that I start to shake. The IV fluids aren't doing much to help, making me feel each and every vein, highlighting them with chilly liquid. Emmett tries to wrap me in his arms again, but I won't let him. I need to stare at his face, take in the contours, the calm, the passion for life.
    He looks good, a little scruffy maybe, but good. It doesn't look like he's shaved since I last saw