Paint Me Beautiful

letting me continue down this path?
    “ Emmett,” I moan as he gives into temptation and seeks my lips again. We both keep our eyes open and half-lidded, watching, looking, absorbing. Ah, Emmett Sinclair with the ardent eyes and the red-hot lips, roasting, scalding, scorching me, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. I am lost to him in that dark bedroom, buried beneath his passion and his conviction that he will save me, whatever the cost. I'm willing to die for my dreams. Well, so is he. Emmett Sinclair wants to rescue me from myself, and he'll stop at nothing to make sure that he does.
    I touch his wet hair; he touches mine. We exchange wordless words with nipping lips and touch and feel and caress. Emmett sees places on me that nobody else gets to see, touches parts of me that I find putrid, and he looks happy about it, thrilled. His hard body doesn't lie as it slips in and out of me, and the expression on his face tells me that whatever it is that I see wrong in myself, he doesn't see it.
    I am broken in my own eyes.
    I am sick in my family's.
    I am not good enough in the fashion world's.
    In Emmett's, I am whole.
    I kiss him again and this time, I don't let him go until I fall into pleasure; I don't even let him breathe. I keep my arm wrapped around his neck and I absorb all of the good in him, pray that it rubs off on me, that once this fast is over, once I've got this contract, that I'll be happy, relaxed, pleased to just be, to just exist.
    I come in Emmett's arms and then lie quiet and panting while he finds his, just enjoying the feeling of him inside of me. When he finally collapses next to me, he pulls me against him and cradles my head under his chin. Neither of us speaks for a long, long while.
    “ I kind of liked that cooking class,” he tells me, and I'm not sure where he's going with this, so I stay quiet. “Want to go to another one? I still have a bunch of punches left on that card.” I shrug.
    “ Sure,” I whisper as my breathing relaxes back to normal, and my emotions stop spinning like a tornado inside of me, allowing the dust to settle and me to see just a little more clearly. It isn't much, like a spot rubbed on a muddy window, but it's there and outside, I think I might be able to glimpse the sun. Either that or it's just Emmett who's as warm and as bright as the orange-yellow orb that can't come out to play today. Outside the covered window, the rain continues to fall.
    After awhile, Emmett falls asleep, and I get up. I find the keys to the truck on the counter and bring a couple of small boxes inside, setting them down next to the front door while I explore the house. There's just one bathroom that I can find, a small, antique thing with a claw-foot tub and a fuzzy, pink mat on the floor. It's on the opposite end of the hall from a back door that leads out into a generously sized yard, one that's manicured to perfection with neat rows of seasonal flowers, all in bloom, all heavy with moisture. And next to that door is one other, a white, wooden piece of artwork with a handle that creaks and a keyhole that looks positively medieval. Inside is a blank canvas of white walls and empty floors and the house's second bathroom, sterile and perfect. Mine. Completely and wholly, mine.
    I drag my boxes down the hall and unpack the most important things – my workout clothes, my stereo, and most especially, my scale. Another check reveals no difference from this morning's weight which is understandable if a bit disappointing. Lumped in the bottom of the same box is a rectangular jewelry box with a golden rose on the top. It's been sitting on my dresser for so long that I no longer remember what's in it. As I dig through the contents, I find that it's mostly junk and follow a strange urge I have to purge my life of anything that's unnecessary. Maybe my body is not the only part of me that needs to be trimmed down, maybe my whole life needs to be? I start with some junk in the bottom of that box and plan to take it all the way, right to my very framework. Out goes a string of plastic pearls, a single earring whose mate is long lost, a strip of fake tattoos, and then … a razor blade. It's a real one, nice and sharp, a remnant of a necklace I wore for Halloween some time ago.
    The metal sits heavy in my hand and when I poke the slim side of the silver rectangle with my finger, blood blossoms bright, swelling and gathering until it's this jiggling little thing that's threatening to fall to the