Demi Lovato Imagines

About last night

TW - (mentions of) rape

"Hi, Y/n!"

"Hi, Mrs Goudar," you wave, pacing up the driveway, jamming your keys in the lock, and pushing inside. As soon as you slam the door behind you, you collapse back, sliding your shoulder blades down the length of the wall and crumbling into a heap on the floor.

You curse, internally.

You bet Mrs Goudar's going to tell your mom you were home from school early. That woman seems to know everything about you and your family. You should be glad, I guess. It's not like anyone else seems to care about you. Not that it's a shock considering you're competing with a worldwide megastar and a successful child actress. But your neighbour's kindness isn't going to do you much good today. Especially not considering your mom has already warned you about slipping up at school.

"What else are you gonna do, Y/n? What else are you good at? You need to do well in these exams or you're gonna go nowhere. Have you completely forgotten the mess you made of last year? What are you gonna do if that happens again? If you fail again? ...Nobody likes a free-loader, Y/n, and nobody likes a-...Y/n?...Y/n, are you even listening to me? Y/N!?"

"What?!" you choke, snapping your eyes open again and moving your fists away from your ears. But there's only silence once your echo settles into all the nooks and crannies of this huge house. It's happening again. That voice inside your head. The one that doesn't sound like you, but creeps up when no one else is around. As if there's someone just over your shoulder, or hiding in the curve of your ear. It was there this morning too, barking at you on your walk to school. Only that time, it sounded like him. It sounded the same as he did last night. Low, panting grunts reverberating through your ear, itching at the drum. You could almost taste it too; his salty skin as he clamped his palm over your mouth, the other digging under your waistband.

The pain as well. But that's not an almost, that's not a ghost. That's real. That's sore. And it's been tearing you up from the inside-out ever since you jolted awake this morning.

"Our little secret," he smirked before he closed your bedroom door, whispering goodnight as he stalked back to your sister's room. He told her he was going to use the bathroom. And, of course, she believes everything he says. You can't wait until she drops his ass and you can listen to her bitch about him post-breakup, letting her say everything you've wanted to say about him for as long as you can remember.

Everything about Nick gives you the creeps. So you'd much rather listen to your mom rant in your ear, even if it is all in your head.

Hauling yourself onto your feet, you kick off your trainers with your toes and trail your school bag to the bottom of the stairs. There's no point hiding it. If nosy Mc'Goudar has anything to do with it, your mom will know you're here before she's even stepped inside. And by the time you've climbed the stairs, you've run out of energy to go back down and move it, just in case. The deep, guttural pain in your core ignites with every step you take. Dragging your feet, you walk down the hallway and into your bedroom, falling face down on top of your duvet. Squinting one eye open, you glance at the red glowing lights of your alarm clock. 3:34. Maddie will still be in last period. Mom and dad are at work. No clue where Demi and Dallas are but at least they're not in the house.

The last thing you remember before falling asleep is the hard shell of your phone digging into your ribs as you lie paralysed in exhaustion, unable to move.

Similar to how you felt last night.

***

A sharp pain on your back crushes all the air out of your lungs, leaving you gasping. It's him. He's back. Lie still. It comes again, harder this time, thumping impatiently on your skin. The soft linen of the duvet sticks soggily on your cheek, making you feel like you're magnetised to the bed.