Free Color Me Pretty by C.M. Stunich

One of the orderlies is passing by in the dimly lit hallway as I emerge. She stops and stares at me, and I can tell from her swinging ponytail that this is the same woman who helped check me in when I first got here.
    “I'd like some cake,” I say which sounds kind of silly. I mean, come on? The woman, whose name is actually Fran according to her name tag, looks at me for a long time and then nods. Maybe she can tell from the gaunt lines of my cheeks that I need this. Even if it means nothing to her, it'll mean everything to me.
    “Okay, Claire,” she says, and I'm surprised that she remembers my name. A smile bites at the edges of her mouth. “I'd be happy to grab a slice from the kitchen for you.” She pauses, and I see something run through her eyes. I interrupt her before she can even voice the thought.
    “I'm not going to purge,” I promise, wanting to cry but refusing. I've had enough of that, will have more in the future, doubtless. “I just want to … eat.” I keep my mind off calorie counts and on my poem, my drawings. This is a big moment for me, okay? It may not seem like a lot, but it is. This exact second in time is as important to me as the moment I passed out on the bathroom floor. I don't know that then, but I will, later, when I recount things from a much happier place. Afterward, I'm going to feel guilty and I'm going to feel sick and I'm going to curse that cake with every naughty word in the book.
    For now, I just am, and that's where I've always wanted to be.
    Fran moves away with another nod, and I retreat back to my notepad. When I pick it up and stare at the lines on the page, I wonder again what I'm doing here. Am I really a model? Intrinsically, is that who I am inside? Or am I an artist? Can I express myself in other ways? Can I be a role model without being an idol? And if so, what's the difference?
    Self.
    A role model values others and in so doing, becomes a better person. An idol values themselves, and in so doing, often becomes something else. Not bad. Not worse. I can't make those sorts of sweeping judgements. I want to. I want to think about how fat all the staff here is, how long Kylie's neck is, how my sister's ears are too big for her head. Those things are conditioned in me, beaten through in my quest for perfection. But now that I'm here, on the other side of that horribly false ideal, I can see that it isn't right. I was never like that before, but I became that way. Why? Why? Why?
    I draw a circle around my face and set the notepad down, putting my hands on my hips and dropping my chin to my chest.
    When Fran comes back, she sets the cake on the edge of the dresser across from the TV and turns to leave without a word. When I open my eyes and look over at her, I decide to ask a question.
    “How do you know my name?” It's an innocuous thing. I mean, she could just tell me that she knows all the patients names or that since she checked me in, she remembers from my paperwork. She could even say that she remembers me because I'm so despicable to look at.
    Instead, I get this along with a smile: “You have such a pretty face, Claire. It's a hard one to forget.” And then she leaves, and I'm left alone with my worst enemy, all 235 plus calories of her.
    We have a long conversation, this piece of fucking cake and me. I wonder briefly if maybe I am crazy because who in the hell sits and stares at a baked good for over an hour?
    An anorexic, that's who, In-between Claire says. I ignore her and try to decide what New Claire would say. It takes me awhile, but finally, eventually, I get it.
    It's simple, but effective.
    “Hello there,” I say as I take the plate between shaking fingers. “My name is Claire Simone, and it's nice to meet you.”

The next morning, I'm exhausted in every possible aspect – spiritually, emotionally, physically, but I force myself out of that uncomfortable bed and get all my stuff packed before the sun even rises into the Goddamn sky.
    The poem and