Demi Lovato Imagines

Too little

TW -  (mentions of) physical/sexual abuse

You've decided you're just going to say you're sorry.

And no, it's not because you think you're in the wrong. It's just that you don't want to have to spend another night in a dingy hotel room, the last one available so late yesterday evening. You figure the receptionist took pity on you with the dripping mascara and running nose. He certainly gave you that sympathetic smile when he handed you the key, but maybe that was just because he knew what kind of shithole you would be spending the night in. Still, any room is better than no room - and tossing and turning on the lumpy mattress for hours only reminded you of what you are in danger of losing. And so, the minute your alarm rang out this morning, you were up and dressed, ready to tell Demi you're sorry and that she was right all along.

To be honest, you don't even remember what the argument was about last night. A lot of things, probably. A lot of heated words thrown back and forth, just trying to gain the upper hand. So when she screamed at you to leave...you did. You slammed the door on your way out, hoping to show her that she can't just say things without consequence. She can't just tell you that you mean nothing to her and you sit back and take it. So, yeah, you wanted to teach her a lesson. But you're too enamoured by her to let it go on for more than twelve hours.

You reach the bottom of the winding hill that trails up to her huge house, swinging off your bike and pushing it up the rest of the way. She'll be up by now, you think, glancing at your watch as you huff and puff up the road. Maybe it was the rubbish sleep you had, or maybe it's carrying the weight of the uncomfortable reconciliation you're going to have to do, but this morning's walk feels more arduous than it usually does. Feeling a slight sweat break on your forehead, you round the last corner. And suddenly, it's as if your heart has detonated inside your chest.

Blue flashing lights circle around her house, filling your vision with panic. What the hell is going on?! Running closer, you head towards a man who has just stepped out of one of the police cars.

"I'm sorry, you can't come through--"

"What's happening?! Where's Demi?!"

"Miss, I'm sorry but you're going to need to step back. This is a secured area."

He's young with large brown eyes. The hands he holds up to stop you from going any closer are smooth and pink.

"Listen," you breathe, trying not to dissolve right there into the gravel, "The woman who lives here is my girlfriend. I need to know what's happened to her."

You put all your effort into keeping your voice calm and stable, trying to make him believe you. It only takes a couple of seconds for him to pull out the radio from his back pocket.

"Her partner's here...yes, outside...it'll be the only way to get her in so I just thought...yes, of course, I'll let her know," he nods, listening carefully to the speel of unrecognisable numbers and codes from the person on the other end of the line. He lifts his eyes back to you.

"Top floor. Someone is already up there, they know you're coming."

"Thank you so much," you cry, bustling past him and sprinting towards the house. Another officer is securing yellow tape around the perimeter but you don't let yourself think about it. Not until you know for sure. She can't be. Not Demi. Please, not Demi.

Pounding up the staircase, you run towards the bedroom, immediately catching sight of a policewoman standing outside. She's peeking into the room, saying something you can't make out, and you can only pray that she's not looking at a corpse. Hearing your approach, she leans back out and looks you in the eye.