Even Heroes Have Scars

[95] You Don't Do It For Me Anymore

TW: Drinking, Withdrawal

~ Early-May, 2018 ~

Demi's P.O.V.

Ansley was right. I wasn't sober, and I was hardly even trying to be. It wasn't an easy feat to battle, and I knew I'd be doing it for the wrong reason. I had to want to get sober, and I had to do it for myself. Otherwise I'd be setting myself up for failure.

But now it had been a few days since our fight on game night. I decided to stay in Dallas longer, feeling like now was not the right time to be leaving my family and Ansley, so now I was a week away from traveling back to Los Angeles to resume rehearsals before I'd head to Europe for tour again.

Jacob rarely ever held eye contact with me. I could tell he wasn't very fond of me anymore, which was understandable, seeing as how I treated his sister like shit. Hell, I wasn't even fond of me. Maybe I wasn't cut out for a relationship. The common denominator in all of my breakups was me and my relationship with myself. They always ended in breakups. And it currently felt like I was on track for another one.

Fuck it. Fuck all of it. The only thing that could save us now was me trying to get sober before I left. I didn't have to stay sober after I left, but at least for the next few days, I needed to do it. I needed to prove I could.

I visited Ansley at her job today. She stood behind the counter, writing up the schedule a few weeks in advance. The fact that she now had a managerial position was highly attractive to me.

"Hey," I greeted as I sat at the counter. "It's been ten hours."

She glanced up for a moment from her paper, head cocked to the side slightly like a puppy as she rose an eyebrow. "Since what?"

"Since I last... you know," I hinted, fearful of anyone around me eavesdropping.

"Good," she said flatly.

"Good? That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure what else I can say here, Demi. I mean, it's a start. I just don't want to get my hopes up."

"In case it doesn't stick?" I questioned, offended. "Why can't you just be grateful that I'm trying?" I nearly stood and stormed out of the diner when she cut me off.

She sighed and looked up at me. "I'm sorry. You're right. Thank you for the effort. I know the past ten hours have been hard, but I hope you keep going."

Okay, that made up for the other stuff she said. I really didn't want us to continue fighting, so I accepted this and smiled.

That night wasn't as empowering as this was. My anxiety was through the roof, creating cold sweats and a fever and body aches that had me lying in the fetal position on Ansley's bed with half of my body beneath a blanket and half exposed to the air. She sat behind me on the bed and gently stroked my back, kissing my shoulder and my head. Tylenol did nothing to help me cope.

Anytime I closed my eyes, I could still see the outlines of all of the objects in Ansley's room, but their lines grew wavy and swayed as though someone turned it into a painting and poured water onto it. My surroundings became liquid, and every word Ansley said was distorted, so much so that I couldn't understand anything. I wanted to ask her to be quiet, because each word vibrated my vision, but my hands remained weighed down on the bed in front of me. I had seven fingers on one hand, and I became convinced the two fingers I knew weren't actually there were indeed there and that they were lethal. My hands clawed at each other. Sweat beading on my skin reflected my face, a monster staring back at me. My body was falling through the bed, sinking lower and lower to the center of the Earth. Before I knew it, my hands were on my eyes, fingers pushing into them. Ansley clutched my hands in hers and kissed them. Her kindness allowed me to ignore the fact that she had three heads.