Paint Me Beautiful

but I don't say anything. I feel like he's baiting me, but it might just be because I'm so irritable. I should be starting my cycle any day now. In fact, I think it's a few days late; I hope there isn't something wrong with me. “Oh, and guess what?”
    I stare at him as he unwraps the brown paper and reveals a moist cut of fish. As soon as it hits the frying pan, it's going to stink up the whole place. Already, I feel nauseous.
    “ Yeah?”
    “ The company is sponsoring a Green Girls' Fashion Show. It's going to highlight all the ways the textile and fashion industries could help improve the environment by showcasing sustainable, eco-friendly designs.” I keep staring. “And guess who's in charge of the whole damn thing?”
    “ You?” I say and Emmett chuckles. “Gee, is there anything you can't do?” I say, suddenly annoyed at his perfection, the way he's always smiling, how he never seems to do anything wrong. Nobody is that fucking perfect all the time. I want him to mess up, to buy me a greasy hamburger and yell when I don't eat it; I want him to spill milk on the floor in the kitchen and leave it there for me to slip on; I want him to do something, anything to show me that he's human. I really, really want him to stop cooking.
    All of a sudden, all the things I liked about Emmett Sinclair begin to piss me off.
    “ Are you okay?” he asks, and I just nod my head yes, rubbing my temples in tight, little circles. The vitamins that Emmett brought home for me the other day seemed to help at first, giving me a level of energy I haven't felt in weeks. Unfortunately, they wore off quickly and now, I feel even worse than I did before. “Anyway, since I'm in charge, I get to line up designers and models for the show. I was thinking, if you wanted, you could design an outfit and walk it down.”
    I keep staring.
    “ It doesn't have to be anything in particular. You could do something high fashion or avant-garde, or whatever. Anything at all.”
    “ What makes you think I want to design an outfit?” I ask as I watch Emmett lift the fish up and lay in the hot skillet where it sizzles and the stink clouds the room like poison. My stomach twists painfully. “I want to be a model, not a designer. Those are two completely different things.” Emmett doesn't turn around to look at me, focusing his attention on the fish and poking at it with his spatula. I can't help but think I've hurt his feelings, and inside, I'm horrified. I want to jump this counter and tell Emmett I'm sorry. What I don't know is that my body is shutting down, eating itself from the inside out, changing me not only physically but also mentally. I'm always cold, always dizzy; my fingernails are blue and there's a fine growth of downy hair on my arms and legs that was never there before. Oxygen is not making its way up to my brain the way it should and I'm becoming someone different, someone who is cranky and irritable and emotional, who isn't in full control of herself. My cycle, the one I think is causing my mood swings, is gone, stopped. Don't you know the body can't perform its reproductive cycle if you have nothing to feed it with? My search for beauty, for control, for something inside of myself to hold onto and cherish, is turning into a slow, withering death. Emmett knows it; I don't.
    “ Want some fish, Claire?” he asks me, knowing full well what my answer is going to be. I think it's the first time he's ever asked me to eat.
    “ No, thank you.”
    “ Claire?”
    “ What?”
    “ I think I love you.”
    “ You met me last week.”
    “ I don't want to lose you.”
    “ Emmett, you just met me.”
    “ If you don't start thinking about a detour, Claire Simone, you're going to die.” Emmett finally turns around and looks at me. “I think you should consider trying a different way. It doesn't mean you're a failure or that there's something wrong with you, only that the trail looks different.”
    “ I'm going to my room,” I tell him, and he doesn't stop me. Emmett never forces me to do anything, no matter what the consequences might be. He knows that I have to help myself, and if I die in the process, that it is my choice to make. Mine. Mine. Mine.
    I slam the door hard, so hard that a framed picture of my mother falls off the wall and cracks in two. I leave it where it falls and start up another exercise video, desperately trying to escape the pain and the numbness that I'm experiencing. I feel so different now, so detached.