Demi Lovato Imagines

Left Behind

TW - domestic violence

The glass crunches under your foot as you walk downstairs, a glittering trail of sticky shards lining all the way through to the kitchen. You will need to clean it up later but for now, you need food. Sliding two slices of bread into the toaster, you lean back on the counter, breathing slowly in through your nose and out through your mouth. There's still the dull ache behind your eyes and your shoulder groans every time you move your arm but hey, at least your lip has stopped bleeding. A seeping wound is a lot harder to hide than a bruised shoulder. Especially from the school counsellors who have been watching you like a hawk since your mom's funeral. Every time they accost you in the hallway, reminding you that you can come and speak to them at any time about anything, you wonder how they would react if you rocked up without the makeup and conservative uniform, baring the truth about your dad for all to see. 

You wonder if they would call the police there and then? No. They'd probably have to phone him and get him to come in for a meeting. Can't go around reporting people for child abuse willy nilly, right? And he'd come in with a sad smile, starting his speech about how hard he has found it since your mom died and how it's just not the same anymore and how you look just like her, you do...just like her! And the drinking, you know, it's all under control. I'm being straight with you guys here, it's not a big deal. Just something to take the edge off it all.

And you'd sit there thinking about how you lost her as well but you're not downing two litres of vodka a night and beating the crap out your child. Guess people are just different. 

The toast jumps out with a jolt, starting you a little as you feel the ghost of your dad's hand tighten around your wrist. As you pull the butter out the fridge, you think about what you would say if all that happened. Probably back out and tell them the drinking makes your dad happy, for a while. And the bit after, well, that's just symptomatic. Everyone gets a bit rowdy when they're drunk, don't they? Nothing you need to get social services involved over. Placing the butter back, you sit at the table with a heave. 

At least dad's got a new girlfriend now, you hum, tearing the crust off, maybe that'll make him happier? The notion feels promising as you watch the white pools of butter sink into the golden surface. When he first mentioned Demi you felt like your insides had turned to black tar, hardening in frustration as your father casts away your dead mother so quickly. When she comes over tonight, you'll let her know this. You'll make her see that she's not your mom, and she never will be. But knowing she's there, out there somewhere, picks away at the black, boring small holes through which hope of an easier life can be seen. She might be the remedy to your dad's drinking. She might be the cure to all of this.

You hear him stumble about upstairs, knocking into the bathroom. 

If anything, she might replace you as the target of his fists. 

***

"So, Y/n...What are your interests?"

You look up from your plate to your dad's eyes and then to Demi's. 

"Uh-mm..."

"Y/n doesn't do much, eh?" your dad interjects and you clamp your mouth shut. "You know...after everything..."

Demi nods then twirls some more spaghetti around her fork. Your dad has been doing this all evening, dismissing all questions Demi has about you by bringing up your mom. He knows it'll stop Demi from prying and won't give you the chance to blab. Not that you would. One look from him and your teeth screw together in an instant. 

"Well, if you want, you could come to my concert next week?" she offers, a kind smile on her lips. You look up at her. "I mean, if music isn't your thing then that's cool but it'd be nice to get to know you a bit more? You know, 'cause of me and your dad and that..."