Page 29 of The Doctor

Enough of whatever bit of perfection she expected from me.

Then, without another word, she turned on her heels and walked away.

I gave her ten minutes before I gathered up my textbook and scurried back to my bedroom. Setting it down on the stack on the corner of my desk, I twisted it, lining the corners up perfectly with the one beneath it. I opened it, closed it, opened it, closed it, opened it… until it finally felt right. Until my brain told me that not doing it was okay.

Then, stripping out of my clothes, I hopped in the shower and rinsed off, scrubbing my skin until the water ran cold, and I was sure I’d probably be clean for a week.

If only it worked that way.

If only I didn’t have to do this every night.

I needed my pills for that. I needed them to feel normal. To not make my life into a million little rituals that kept me from doing anything else. I needed them.

Needed them.

Needed, needed, needed…

Drying my hair to my mother’s high standards took more time than I cared to admit. It wouldn’t be this way with the pills. They kept me from the constant rituals that wouldn’t let up. When I was finally dried and moisturized, I threw on one of the button-ups I’d stolen from Zee’s and started on my makeup.

Only to apply too much and have to take it all off so I could start all over again.

Finally, with a steady hand, I traced the edge of my upper lip with my new lipstick. I filled it in, using quick, short strokes, until my entire lip was coated, stained a red so dark it was nearly black. Then I started on the bottom, careful not to mess up, not to smear the stain all over my face. I had to get this perfect.

I had to be perfect.

There was no other choice.

When my lips were done, I lifted my gaze, staring into the ordinary brown eyes that I hated more than just about everything else about me. Even with the thick, false lashes, the heavy coat of black mascara, the perfectly winged liner, and the dazzling eyeshadow I could have spent an hour on, my eyes would never look anything more than ordinary.

Why couldn’t I have been born with eyes like my mother and brother? Blue eyes would give me that je ne sais quoi I always wished I could have. Even my father’s brown eyes held something mine didn’t. I was just… me.

Clara Vinci.

The girl who… couldn’t.

The girl Zeno didn’t love like that.

Something scratched at my mind. Like there was a creature inside my head, trying to get out. Trying to remind me of something.

Something I missed.

Something I didn’t do.

I let my gaze travel my reflection. Across my face, down my neck to where my collarbone jutted out. I tapped it five times.

Just like Mom’s. It was just like Mom’s. Yet… it wasn’t.

Neither were my breasts, so small and simple compared to hers. Or my waist. The jutting hip bones that were too sharp to be considered beautiful. My thighs, too thick. My ass, too round. Even my feet, shoved in the lacy stockings that rose up to cover my thighs, were too big.

Too different.

Too… not like her.

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes, and I lifted them toward the ceiling, blinking rapidly to make them go away. I couldn’t let them fall, couldn’t let them ruin the makeup I’d tried so hard, spent so much time, trying to perfect.

Perfect.

Not perfect.