Didn't Mean To

Dont Tell Anyone

Trigger Warning for: Eating disorders, cutting, alcohol usage, domestic abuse, swearing, suicidal thoughts, maybe suicide (depends on my mood), and sex in a relationship that one person doesn't really want, but allows (almost rape, but..).

I'm pretty awful at writing, and I tend to make my writing really fast paced so I don't have a lot to criticize (because I spend a loooong time criticizing my writing so..), aaaand I'm usually going to be writing this at around 4am, which means I'll be sleep deprived. Don't expect too much from this.

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Third Person POV

Demi's a lot of things. She's an inspiration to millions, a woman who shares her struggles and her story, someone who has saved countless lives, a survivor of an eating disorder, cutting, drugs, alcohol, and a suicide attempt. She's also a liar. She tells her fans that she's 6 years sober, even though, in reality, she usually finds herself downing a few bottles of beer when she's by herself. She tells her fans she doesn't cut anymore, even though her thighs are lined with angry red lines, and her skin almost always has a smear of blood on it. She tells her fans she struggles sometimes with her eating disorder, but she struggles with it daily, and more then half her meals end up being thrown up just minutes after she eats it. The one thing she hasn't lied about is her drug use. She hasn't touched a drug in 6 years, and that's the only thing she can say she overcame without lying.

Demi's first relapse was with cutting.

"Demi!" Marissa cries, banging on the bathroom door. Demi crinkles her nose at her best friend's voice, feeling guilt eat away at her as a sob follows her friends pleading.

Even though she felt guilty, it didn't stop her from grabbing the pencil sharpener blade she had taped to the back of the mirror a while ago. She hadn't bothered to take it down when she got out of rehab two years ago.

Demi pulls her jeans down to her ankles, and takes a seat on the bathroom floor. Her hand shaking, she trails the blade across her thigh, her lip between her teeth as she thought. To her, there were more pros then cons to relapsing, so without a second thought, she digs the blade into her skin and pulls it across her thighs, over and over again.

"Please, Dems," Marissa pleads again, and Demi looks up at the bathroom door with narrowed eyes. "Don't make me get the key," Marissa warns, her voice watery.

Demi stands up at that, hurriedly grabbing a hand towel and pressing it to her bleeding thighs. After she cleans her thighs up, she quickly wipes up the small amount of blood that had made its way to the floor.

"Demi!" Marissa warns again, and Demi throws the towel in a drawer on the sink, pulling her jeans up. She doesn't bother checking to see if she bled through her jeans, since they're black, and pulls the door open.

Making sure she looks just the right amount of distraught, she quietly informs her friend, "I didn't do anything." Marissa let's out a sob of relief, but Demi can see her eyes flicking to her wrists just in case. Marissa engulfs her friend into a hug, and Demi cringes slightly at the cries leaving her friend.

"I was so worried," Marissa whispers after she calms down.

Demi nods quietly, her heart feeling heavy as she whispers back, "I know."

Demi can feel herself growing upset at the memory. It was five years ago, but every time she had the same reaction to it. Sometimes she wishes she never relapsed, but other times she thanks God that she did, because everything became so easy. She wasn't wasting time with fighting urges, now. No one really worried about her like they used to, because she was supposedly doing well with everything, so she didn't worry too much about hiding her relapse anymore.