That word is love (Demi Lovato fanfic)

That word is love : Chapter 2

I opened my eyes wearily, feeling like I hadn't slept all night. I'd had the most wonderful dream, where I was on stage and being crowned the winner of the X Factor, and I gave my dad my winnings and he left me alone, and then everyone was cheering for me, and everyone loved me, and everyone wanted to be my friend and-

Yeah, right. Like that could ever happen.

I had to remember the truth. If I kept spinning all these fantasies, eventually when the real world came crashing down on them, I would be left alone to pick up the fragile pieces of myself and slot them back together as best as I could. How many times had I been through that?

When I was nine, and I just knew that my long-lost father would be my knight in shining armour. When I was ten, and I believed that there must have been some mix-up with the papers. My real dad would be coming to sort out the mistake any day now.

At twelve, when the beatings stopped for a few days and I was certain it was forever- a few days later, he was waiting for me in my room at night.

At fourteen, when I hoped with a small, reckless fiber of my soul that I would be allowed to continue with high school.

My dreams stopped then.

Dreams and hopes are childish fancies that shouldn't be entertained. Just like the X Factor. I was doing my duty as a daughter to try to help out with the household expenses, and nothing more.

I got up off the floor slowly. My back was stiff and sore, and my neck could barely turn.

Oh, well. That's what I got for falling asleep on a cold floor on my knees. No wonder Dad had so much trouble with me. My stomach growled angrily, and I looked towards the kitchen-

Shit. Breakfast. Dad.

I scrambled up off the floor, almost falling over when I stood and my ribs had to support my body. Seven-thirty. I had to make breakfast. Thank God I forgot to close the curtains and the daylight streaming in through the windows had woken me in the nick of time; usually I had an alarm that rang quietly. It was a fine line- it had to be loud enough to wake me, but not too noisy. If it woke Dad, I would be punished.

Slowly, I glanced up the stairs. All dark. He was still asleep. I padded past the basement door, shuddering unconsciously. I never went down to the Room if I could help it. It was hell on earth- all my nightmares condensed into one in the Room.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, trying to think what he would like to eat. I never got it right. He was my father- I should know him well enough after eight years to be able to figure out what he wanted for breakfast.

I pursed my lips. Usually, pancakes were for the weekend, unless he woke up in a particularly good mood. Sometimes on weekdays, he felt like eggs, but if he'd drunk too much at night, he preferred bacon.

I swallowed and gave a quick look to the stairs again, dark and foreboding. Bacon days were the worst days.

He hadn't had too much to drink, just a few glasses of scotch. Eggs should be fine. I rummaged around the kitchen to find all the things I needed, trying not to make too much noise and wake him. About fifteen minutes later, just as I was setting the scrambled eggs onto a plate with beans and toast, he plodded into the kitchen in his housecoat, his hair disheveled and unshaved.

With a groan and not a word to me, he collapsed onto his chair. I quickly put the plate down in front of him. "Here, sir."

"Hmmph." He exhaled as he gave his meal a once-over, and I bit my lip. Please just let him like it. For once, let him like it. Finally, he nodded. "Fine, I'll eat it because I'm in a good mood. But I wanted fried eggs!"