Demi Lovato Imagines

School project pt.3

"Don't you have school to be at?"

"Yeah."

"Then why are you here?"

"Some things are more important."

"Well, it's taken you a long time to come to that conclusion, squirt," he chuckles, leaning back on the metal chair. 

The nickname forces you to finally look up and meet his gaze. It's been so long since you've heard it, and yet his eyes look exactly the same. You kind of expected them to look different, older, greyer. But they're not. They're the same deep brown colour you saw when he took the stand and pled his innocence on the bible. The same as when he cried when they agreed he was guilty. The same as when you would sit and stare at the family photos for hours at a time, trying to read his preserved image for answers. Could he really have done it? you would ask yourself. Could he have been so spiteful? After a while, you weren't so sure. You were scared you just couldn't remember if he was being extra secretive about his computer. Or forgot about times where he would ask you about that girl in your class with the famous sister. It's not like you could ask your parents. They refused to let you come and visit, let alone discuss anything about the case. And what would happen if they had said yes? Yes, he was that kid everyone should hate. He was that kid who exploited private pictures because he was ignorant and stupid and a criminal. What would you have done then? You wouldn't have been able to handle it. So you didn't ask. You didn't even consider it. And slowly, the memories drifted away. 

"Why'd you decide to come now? You never came before."

"Mom and dad wouldn't let me. They said it would be too upsetting."

You watch him as he shrugs his shoulders in a snorting laugh, shaking his head. 

"Upsetting for who? You're not the one stuck in here," he mutters. And suddenly you feel very uncomfortable and want to go home. His eyes may be the same, but your brother has changed. 

"I know," you say carefully, tracing your eyes over the streaky coffee marks left on the metal table. You can hear it screeching just by looking at it. 

"So?"

"So what?"

"So why are you here now?"

"'Cause I wanted to see you. I wanted to tell you what happened the other day. And I wanted to ask--..."

You clamp your bottom lip under your top teeth. A prickle of sweat beads on the back of your neck. 

"You wanted to ask if I did it," Jonathan finishes, matter-of-factly. 

You don't nod. You don't need to. 

"I didn't, in case you thought I did," he says, still leaning back, "My story's the same as it was on the stand. I never touched her damn pics."

"The jury seemed pretty convinced," you mumble, not thinking.

"The jury didn't know shit!" he yells, slamming his fist on the table. The two officers on either side of the room reach their hands to their belts, taking one pace forward. Jonathan catches them out of the side of his eye and holds his hands up, apologetic. Your heart hammers. 

"I didn't mean to make you angry..." you say quietly after a few seconds, "...I just can't remember...It was so long ago..."

He takes a few deep breaths, clenching his eyes shut for a moment. He never used to be like this. You're sure of that. Prison has broken your brother. 

"What happened the other day?" he finally sighs, changing the topic. You're not sure if you want to say anymore. 

"Uh...well..."