Paint Me Beautiful

a coat again, so I end up soaking wet but hopefully not as ghastly looking as I was when I walked into Lianna's agency. I'm not wearing any makeup and my hair is loose and damp, hanging low to hide my neck and shoulders, two of the areas that seem to frighten most people away. I get some stares, but not a lot. I try to pretend that they're all admiring my dress, but denial only goes so far. I grab a cart and then I just stand there, heart thumping painfully in my chest. I glance at the people around me and wonder what they're going to think when they see me grabbing food off the shelf.
    Look at that fat, disgusting pig.
    As if she isn't big enough.
    I pause as I remember what Lianna said to me. Too skinny. Am I going to be assaulted on both fronts? Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I start questioning myself then, wondering what the hell I was thinking coming out here by myself. I should've waited for Emmett, or better yet, stayed at home and let him go by himself. I stand in the front entrance as long as I'm able to without drawing suspicion, moving forward only when the security guard starts coming my way. I head towards the beauty aisle where I'm most comfortable and spend an inordinate amount of time browsing the lotions and face masks. I pick out a couple and let them fall to the bottom of the empty cart where they bounce against the metal bars like they're inmates fighting to escape a jail cell. I lean over the railing and move slowly, heels hitting the linoleum floor with a clunking sound that makes me remember my runway walk, the one I should've been practicing this whole time but which I totally forgot about in my quest for skinny.
    I move my cart to the side of the aisle and glance over my shoulder. There's nobody there. I push my chest forward, pull my shoulders back and start stomping that friggin' floor like it's a runway at Fashion Week, letting my arms move naturally, keeping my chin horizontal to the ground. The toilet paper on my right and the boxes of hair dye on my left fade away, and I imagine that there are crowds of starry eyed admirers on either side of me, watching enviously, wishing they were me. And then I find that my vision is switching, that I'm down in the crowd looking up and all I can see is my artwork draped over a faceless canvas. Cameras flash and briefly, I find myself behind one of those, snapping away, capturing brief moments in time, immortalizing them.
    When all three visions come together, I see in triplicate: the art, the artist, the frame. Model, designer, photographer.
    And then I wake up and find myself lying on the grocery store floor.
    I passed out again.
    I force myself to my feet, desperate to make sure that nobody sees me lying in a floral heap between the paper towels and the toothpaste. I stumble back to the cart and grab onto it for dear life; I know then that whether I want to or not, I need to eat. Something feels different inside, like I am this close to losing Claire Simone forever. I forget about the vision for a moment and take off on a mad spree that satisfies parts of me and brutally slaughters others.
    I buy chocolate chip cookies, shortbread cookies, vanilla wafers, mini cupcakes, tortilla chips, salsa, cream cheese, Doritos, Almond Roca, Reese's Pieces, Kit Kats, jars of peanut butter and jelly, a loaf of white bread, some frozen pizzas, frozen burritos, frozen fries. I fill that fucking cart to the brim and I cry the entire time I'm doing it. The worst part of it all is that the few things I came here to get are the ones that I almost forget. I add eggs, olive oil, peppers, broccoli, onions, and celery to my pile, so that Emmett and I can make our omelets. We can cook them together, and I can pretend that I feel really great about eating such a healthy, low fat meal, and then Emmett can go to bed, and I can pull out my hoard, stuff my monster to the brim, fill her with everything that I hate.
    And then continue with my original plan to purge it all.
    I feel so guilty, like I'm lying to Emmett, putting on a false front for him when he's being so genuine. I continue to shake and cry and hiccup as I toss food onto the belt at the checkout. I figure if I'm going to be throwing up after the omelet anyway, why can't I just add chocolate? Salami? Bagels? Why can't I have a little pleasure before there's more pain? I think of my mother's fucking biscuits and my mouth waters. I resist the urge to slap myself as I step up to the clerk and try to keep a smile on