Demi Lovato Imagines

Escape

The smell of freshly baked bread dances in the air as the streetlights outside glitter through the glass. It's busy. But not too busy, if you get what I mean. Busy enough that it's not awkwardly silent, but not so packed that you find it hard to breathe. Which is a feeling you know all too well. It was only this morning that you had to stretch at the collar of your shirt to stop from losing vision, crouched in a bathroom stall while the rest of the school flows down the hallway like schools of fish. You feel like a barnacle, gripping to the side with your nails, desperate not to get sucked away into another panic attack. It had happened before, many a time. And each time, you feel the wall getting smoother and smoother, turning its back on you.

Madz:
U ok?

You glance down at your buzzing phone on the table, tearing your eyes from that one lamp outside that flickers every twenty-three seconds. You've been counting. It helps you relax. Or, more truthfully, it distracts you from what's going on around. Which is a good thing. Honest.

Y -e - a -h you type back rhythmically, your fingertips skipping across the screen. Only half an hour to go, you breathe, you can do this. You're still not entirely sure why you weren't allowed to go for the start of the show. Your mom said something about you taking the time to get school work done...or something...? But, come to think of it, you know she must have been making that up. She complains all the time that that's all you do - school, schoolwork, bed, school, schoolwork, bed. You kind of want to tell her that you would scratch off the 'school' part if you could and spend the whole day in your room. But you know that will only make her mad. Or, even worse, will get her started on her 'therapy' spiel. You only barely managed to get out of it last time. You doubt you'll be so lucky next time around.

Madz:
U sure? r u on ur way?

Especially not after what happened today. Pretty sure slapping another girl across the face is as good a reason as ever to get you checked into some mental facility. You bet your mom would love that. Another kid sent off to treatment. Maybe she could write a book about you next time. Maybe she'll buy a new car with the money she gets from it. Your heart rate jolts just thinking about it, your inner voice sounding more and more sarcastic with every passing thought. You're not surprised she didn't come to school. Not even a call from the principle would pull your mom away from Demi on her first night back in Dallas. So your principle left a message and told you to wait in his office while they figured out what they were going to do. He said something about you not being allowed to go back to class because you're a 'liability'  or some shit. Suited you. You didn't want to go back into that room with a bunch of people bitching about how you never turn up and every time you do, you start crying just so you get sent home early. 'Pathetic' was what that girl called you. And for some reason, today, that was enough to make you turn around and strike her across the face. You can still hear her scream ringing in your ears as the teacher's voice boomed from over your shoulder. Figures, you hum, running your thumb over your bright red palm. It's still burning hot from when it happened. You bet her face hurts like a bitch. Serves her right.

Because they don't understand. None of them do. Just like your mom and dad, they give you that look - the shifting one that lets you know they're going to roll their eyes as soon as you look away. They call you a skiver, or lazy. 'Entitled' is the word your mom uses. It grates at the inside of your chest. It makes you want to cry again even though you were more than likely crying only about two hours before. Because that's the way your day goes. You awake with a start, convinced there's something waiting behind your bedroom door to burst through and attack you. You can hear it, pressing against the wood. Then you shovel breakfast down your throat, praying that, if you do it fast enough, anything poisonous in there won't get the chance to work. Then you force your feet out the door and up to school, clinging to the side of the pavement, jumping every time a car whizzes past. This brings you up to eight AM. And so you get the gist. Every moment feels like your last. The fear of death consumes you in one giant bite. That girl today, well, she just shouldn't have been talking shit. Because now you've been sent home with a disciplinary. And now you have to go and confront your mom about it backstage in the huge arena your sister is performing at. And she probably thinks her life sucks. Think again.