Demi Lovato Imagines

Numb

TW - rape, violence

Red eyes stare back at you from the mirror. 

Taunting you. 

Reminding you of your stupidity for getting into this mess. 

"Y/n!"

And they sting as a new layer of salty tears forms upon them. 

Rushing out of the bedroom door and down the stairs, you are pulled like a magnet towards where your girlfriend's shout came from. She's standing in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips, face tight in fury. 

Her eyes aren't red. 

They're black. 

As if they're ready to suck any remaining fight out of you. As if you are the red pawn and she is the black queen. Your chances of winning are close to zero. But you knew that already. 

"What is this?" she asks pointedly, one of her hands shooting like an arrow towards a stain in the rug. That stain has been there for months now. You thought she'd already noticed. 

"A stain?" you answer clearly, trying to give the illusion that you weren't shitting yourself. You know you should try and at least look calm and collected when she was in these moods - to try and deter her from becoming confrontational with fists instead of just with her words. 

It seldom worked.

"A stain?" she echoes, narrowing her eyes into slits as you stand on the opposite side of the room. 

"Yeah. A stain," you copy, hoping that if she sees how unnecessarily over-the-top she's being, maybe she'll back off. 

Fat chance. When has that ever worked out? 

"Okay..." she draws out, pursing her lips in sarcastic gesture, "...and - how did it get there?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know, Demi? I didn't do it," you shrug.

Which is true. You didn't. You have no idea how the stain got there but you certainly weren't bothered by it. But you know Demi isn't really bothered by it either. This whole display is just an excuse for her to shout at you for something. It's predictable. You can smell it from a mile off. And it's what makes you feel so stupid for hanging around in this relationship. 

"You didn't?" she raises her eyebrows in feigned shock, "Because you ruin everything else! So why should I believe that you didn't ruin this rug?"

You see, for the past twelve months, your girlfriend has been getting worse and worse. Abusive - that is. And it's sort of escalated to a point where you can't brush it off as a bad day or that time of the month any more. Because it's every day. Every day there is at least one thing she finds to berate you for. Belittle you for. Hit you for. 

She doesn't often hit you, is what you remind yourself. 

It doesn't make you feel a whole lot better though. 

"Well, I didn't do it," you repeat, still trying to ride the wave of fake confidence you caught when you first came down. And you turn your back towards her, heading back for the door. Your eyes are still stinging and you know the tears of frustration are going to come soon. 

She hates it when you cry. 

"Don't turn your back on me, Y/n, this isn't finished," she snaps. You halt but don't turn back to face her. 

"Demi, I'm not fighting over this. There's a stain. So what? You weren't angry about it two months ago," you challenge, raising your voice slightly.