Demi Lovato Imagines

Visiting pt.2

Your laces are tied too tight and the tips of your toes tingle uncomfortably as you swing your legs back and forth, back and forth.

The phone rings at reception. Sirens cry from the other side of the white-wash wall. Men in navy blue uniforms file in and out of the sliding doors, sometimes hauling a thrashing layabout between them.

You look to the kind-looking woman at the front desk every so often, trying to work out if she's been told anything yet. The constable that spoke to you earlier said they were going to start finding you residency right away but you already suspected that was a lie. His eyes kept darting behind your head at every new arrest being filed into the system and you knew that the moment he turned his back on you completely, his mind would be somewhere else.

"Miss Y/l/n?" a voice calls from your left. A woman with dark, cropped hair peaks her head out of one of the rooms, smiling weakly as she beckons you towards her. Pushing yourself up into standing, you shuffle along the side of the corridor, trailing your knuckles along the wall so as to not drift away in the short walk it takes for you to reach her. Placing her palm on the small of your back, she presses you into the room, inviting you to take a seat.

"It's Y/n, right? Am I pronouncing that correct?" she asks brightly as she takes the chair facing you and fingers through the pages in her hands. You just nod wordlessly, unsure of what she could be about to say.

"I'm so very sorry about your mum. Such a tragedy..." she mumbles, shaking her head. You wonder if she uses this reacting for every 'tragedy' she deals with day-to-day. Probably.

"Did Constable Jones tell you we were accessing your files?"

You just look at her with a blank stare so she continues,

"I think he said he told you...Anyway, no matter. We've managed to make contact with your birth father. In America. He says he's more than willing to take you in."

Her lips stretch tightly over her lips in a smile as she tells you as if all your problems have been magically fixed. As if you hadn't just watched your mum get killed in an RTC with the knowledge that it was all your fault. I mean, she's probably relieved. Her job is over. Now all she needs to do is pack you off on a plane and tick your name off on her clipboard as another successful case-file.

Would you just quit it, Y/n? Just while I'm driving?

"Is that alright? We always like to place minors with the closest family member so your father would be our preferred choice..."

I'm not having this argument again! Y/n, you have no idea what it's been like for me! Having to deal with you!

"I can see if I can organise a call between the two of you before you get on a flight to the US? Would you like that?"

I never said I hated you! God, Y/n, you're always putting words in my mouth, trying to make me feel bad! Leave it! I don't want to hear from you until we get back home! I don't even want to see you!

"Is there something you want to let me know? Are you okay if I go and confirm this arrangement just now?"

Your throat burns, remembering the smell of the petrol that flowed out of the busted engine. Every time you blink, your mother's mangled body flashes on the backs of your eyelids.

"Y/n?"

The crunch of broken glass echoes deep inside your ear canals.

"Y/n?"

"Yes. Yes, it's fine."

The woman looks at you warily, her eyes flitting between your face and her notes.