Paint Me Beautiful

floor in a burst of crimson. I stare at it for a long, long time and then I suck it off and put the razor blade on the floor next to my stereo. I even throw the jewelry box away, but I keep that. I keep it, and I don't know why.
    That scares me.

 

    The next few days in my new house are blissful.
    If I'm in my room, Emmett doesn't bother me. If I'm not, he does in the best way possible. He leaves me alone to exercise and even joins me on my morning runs before he heads off to work. He doesn't ask me why I don't eat or if I'm hungry, and he definitely doesn't tell me to get help. In fact, he doesn't seem to do anything wrong. He doesn't leave his towel on the bathroom floor, and he always remembers to put the seat down. He never leaves dishes in the sink or forgets to take out the trash when it's full. At first, I feel like it's an act, like I'm not seeing the real Emmett, and so I'm actually pleased when I find something that annoys me.
    Every night, just when I'm about done with my exercise, Emmett starts to cook. He makes these massive dinners that stink up the whole house and make me want to sit in the corner and cry. My stomach is in knots and my head is always pounding. By this point, I'm passing out at least once a day, fortunately most often when I'm in my room or Emmett's at work, and these dinners seem to only make things worse. Even more horrible is that when he makes them, I find myself hard-pressed to find anything negative to say.
    Emmett uses egg whites and chopped veggies, fat free salad dressing and vegan croutons. He uses fish and chicken and turkey and never any red meat, and he always, always, always portions himself a perfectly sized plate, like he seriously weighs his meat. It's too much, especially coming from a guy who ate a whole cookie in one bite and didn't think twice about loading his plate with my mother's animal fat mashers and those stupid fucking biscuits.
    Five days after I move in, I'm sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter marking up my calendar for the next week, making sure each moment is utilized to the best of its ability, so that when the day I've marked out with big, red swirls comes, I'll be ready. Lianna will see me, and she'll know she wants me. Or at least I hope she does. I haven't looked in the mirror since I left my parents' house. For some reason, I just can't bring myself to do it. I touch my face a lot and my cheeks feel less chubby, but my waist still looks huge and my hips, gargantuan. The scale says I've lost another five pounds, but I'm just not sure it's going to be enough.
    “ Hey there,” Emmett says, whisking in the front door with two armfuls of groceries and a smile on his stubbly face. I smile as he kisses my cheek and use my blue pen to cross out the words Family Reunion from my calendar. Deep down, I might miss my mom and dad a bit (I do not miss Marlena yet), but I can't help but feel like this is a better place for me. I was going to use family reunion day as a binge day and just eat whatever I want, but now, I can save that until after I'm booked. Or maybe even longer. Maybe never? I think as I sigh and close my planner.
    Emmett is unloading a brown, paper package that's wrapped in twine, a plastic bag stuffed to the gills with veggies, and a bag of white rice.
    “ You sure did get the cooking bug,” I say, and my voice sounds kind of bitchy. I try to tone it down a bit. Emmett has been nothing but nice to me. He respectfully keeps his distance like any roommate should, but if I show him that I'm in the mood, he's affectionate as all get out. We watched a movie last night and I think there were maybe fifteen seconds during the whole thing where he wasn't stroking my hair back. “I guess we don't need to take anymore classes,” I say, trying to make a joke of it but failing. I still sound mean. I've been making excuses not to go to another one of those classes all week. Food frightens me; my skill at cooking frightens me even more. I don't even want to go near the damn stuff. I feel like there's a rapacious monster inside of me that's fighting to get out, and if she does, she'll eat me to death. I think constantly about ways to kill her.
    “ Yeah,” he says with a smile as he crinkles up the brown paper grocery bags and puts them under the sink. “I guess I did.” He pauses and wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Truly, I think it was the way you moved in that kitchen, like you were born to it. I liked that.” I stare at him,