Paint Me Beautiful

closet, lay it on my bed and unzip it, think about him as I remove the white gown inside, let it slide over my head and down my body where it hangs in gentle waves, tailored to perfection. Even though I'm not the same size as I was when I bought it, the Valentino still manages to fit nicely, as any good designer wear should. I touch my fingers to the white piqué dress with reverence, close my eyes and think about Emmett's hands on my hips, his body inside of mine.
    I hate to admit it to myself, but I really did enjoy cooking the omelet with him. What I didn't enjoy was eating it. Each bite felt like a breach of trust against myself, like I was too weak to stop myself from straying from the plan, like I'd betrayed me. I smiled my best smile, laughed my best laugh, but as soon as Emmett went to bed, the monster came out.
    She sits in my belly now, roused by a greedy fervor, one that was switched on by that very first bite of egg white, the quivering bit of which sat on the end of Emmett's fork and found its way between my lips. When it hit my tongue, I lost my control.
    I'm weak, so weak. I gave in and now I've got 5,000 – 7,000 – 10,000 – or more calories sitting on my bed waiting for me to give up and give in. I've already accepted my loss, already feel that fucking omelet sitting in my belly like lead. But if I'm going down, I'm going down with style.
    I look into the mirror and spread red lipstick generously over my mouth, pleased at the way the color hides the dryness of my lips, makes it look moist and kissable again. I sure do miss that mouth. I set the black tube down on my vanity and pick up a compact, powdering my face slowly, oh so slowly, dabbing at my cheeks, my throat, my chest as I sway in time with All Around Me by Flyleaf. I pretend that the song is about Emmett as I switch over to my mascara, sweeping darkness along my pale, thinning lashes. They used to be fuller, I think, prettier. You used to be prettier, fatter maybe, but still prettier. Now you get to be both: fat and ugly. Is that what you want? I ignore my own thoughts, lost in a deep trance, one that keeps me away from even the razor blade on my dresser. Why do I need that when I have this.
    I bite into my first cookie, a madeleine actually, and feel butter and sweetness explode across my tongue.
    “ I feel you on my fingertips … my tongue dances behind my lips for you. ” I sing the words to the song as I lick my fingers, tasting each crumb, savoring them with a heavy side of guilt that sets a horrible cold fire to my insides and makes me sick. But I don't stop. I don't stop because I'm already doing this, so it has to be done right.
    Gray eye shadow goes up around my eyes. I mix it with a bit of lavender and a hint of silver so that my gray-blue eyes look a bit more sultry and a bit less round, like two marbles shoved into the center of my face. I finish the madeleine. A chocolate chip cookie is next, disappearing down my throat in one bite. I ignore the flashing red calorie counts that spring up in my head. I can't think about that now or I'll get suicidal.
    My bare feet whisper across the hardwood floor as I approach the closet again and select a pair of shoes. It doesn't take me even a minute to decide on the wedge sandals, the ones with the little silver studs. Those are Valentino, too. How nice. I unwrap a mini cupcake and eat it in two neat bites, careful to keep the blue frosting away from my dress.
    Inside of me, Real Claire screams for help.
    I ignore her, opening package after package of food with careful precision, never tearing, never rushing, always slow and perfect.
    All Around Me repeats on a continuous loop until I'm lying on my back on my bed in a gentle trance, blonde hair spread around my head like a halo. I eat until I feel like I'm going to explode, and then I eat some more. I eat, and I eat, and I eat. With every bite, I think of how big a failure I am, how I couldn't even accomplish this one, tiny task. I close my eyes and try to listen to the sounds of my stomach, try to listen as my body begins to digest the food I've eaten, grabbing at it with all of its power and holding tight, desperate for sustenance.
    That's when I know that it's time to get up, to walk into the bathroom and lift the lid to the toilet, sweep my hair aside with gentle fingers and put my hand down my throat. My muscles scream alongside Real Claire, clenching involuntarily as they're forced to release their prize. My body doesn't let the