Demi Lovato Imagines

Birthday Present pt.3

The interrogation room smells of disinfectant. The kind one might use if they want to clean up something corrosive. Who was in here before?

You have no idea how long you've been sitting here, the cold metal chair digging into your back, unrelenting and ruthless. Before, you had your hands laid out in front of you, examining the dried smears of blood that cake the skin. But then you felt like you could smell it - the blood - taste the tangy iron on your tongue. So you stopped looking, tucking your palms under your thighs, out of sight and out of mind. That's how the saying goes, isn't it? Oh, how you wish you could screw your mind up into a crumpled ball and toss it in the trash, douse it in petrol, and set it ablaze. Wouldn't that be so much easier? It would mean the person that comes through that door wouldn't get very far though. But maybe that's what you want. You don't want them to know about Demi's last words. They are only for you. Yours. Mine. They are wrapped neatly in a trinket box, tied with a shiny bow in the centre of your consciousness. You don't dare open it again. Not for a stupid investigator, that's for sure.

The green light blinks from the corner of the room, watching you.

The door clicks open.

"Hello, Miss Lovato," he speaks, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting off the fluorescent overhead light making it impossible to see his eyes.

"Hello," you reply stiffly.

He takes the seat across from you, taking his time to spread all his papers on the table. He sighs. A long, drawn-out sigh as a head teacher might do to a child with a disciplinary.

"I'm here to talk about what happened this morning. With Mr Nicholas Jonas and Miss Demetria Lovato--ghm..." he coughs, "...uh, your sister..."

His face reddens slightly as you continue to stare at him. You can see his eyes now. Brown, friendly. Not conducive to someone whose job it is to squeeze out unwilling information.

"Would you mind telling me what you saw?"

You do mind, actually. You don't want to talk about it, especially not with some random man you've never met before. You don't even know how you're going to explain it all to your parents yet. Because they're bound to ask. And you doubt there are universal instructions telling you how to describe, in detail, how they're daughter ended up lying lifeless on the ground. Not breathing. De--

"Anything about how Mr Jonas ended up with deep lacerations on his arms?"

Oh. That. You hadn't even given a second thought to that part of the story.

8:39 am

"Open up! It's the police!"

A loud crash erupts from downstairs, the sound of metal on metal. Then a thunderous stampede climbing the stairs, getting closer to where you are kneeling on the floor.

"Come on, Demi! Please! Please wake up!" you sob, patting her face with your sticky hands, your fingerprints leaving red spots on her cheeks like warpaint.

Police swarm in through the open door, ominous weapons pointing towards both you and Nick behind you. They shout things you can't understand. Everything is too loud. Demi's silent heart drowns everything else out.

Two police officers step over you, grabbing Nick by his arms and securing them behind him.

"Sir - you are under arrest under suspicion of assault. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."