Demi Lovato Imagines

Found pt.2

The car hits another pot-hole and you lurch forward, seatbelt cutting at your neck.

"What do you mean?"

Demi doesn't reply, training her eyes straight forward on the cratered road but not doing anything to avoid the cracks. She sets her jaw tight, screwing her teeth together.

"Do you know my mom?" you ask again. The leather seat now feels very hot and sticky, as if you need to peel your self off inch by inch. You both jolt forward again.

"No."

Her answer scrapes away at your insides as the car drives down the long stretch of motorway. Demi's ironed blazer and tear-drop earrings fill your mind, a perfect image of the woman even though you're not even looking at her.

"Are-...Are you my mom?"

Met only by silence, you look to your side. Demi's eyes are glassy and her nostrils flared, her cheeks turning a slight shade of red. You pick at the threads of the interior's lining, waiting for her to say something. Anything. You want her to say no. You want her to tell you that you're being stupid and that of course not, of course you're not her kid who has been tossed from foster home to foster home, hostel to hostel, scheme to scheme. Of course you're not about to fly to England because you have no tie to the only country you've ever known, ever lived in, not even a mother to call your own.

"How long have you known?"

She blinks, a tear running down each cheek and dripping underneath her chin. She tries to wipe them away with her shoulder.

"About what?" she croaks, still not willing to look your way.

"That I was your kid?"

Your voice is monotone but you don't have the energy to change it. You feel as if all your blood has collected in your feet, draining from your head, your heart, your stomach. For the first time in your life, you feel a bit car-sick.

"Always. I've always known you were mine, Y/n."

You turn your head out the window, staring as the shadows of trees whiz by at breakneck speed. It worsens your nausea and you swallow hard to stop from throwing up, throat constricting and neck tightening. You feel her hand on your thigh and you snatch away from her touch, huddling yourself towards the car door and pressing your forehead against the cold glass. The vibration of it dislodges the tears and you do your best to hide your face.

"You can cry, baby," she whispers through her own tears. You rub your face with your hands, feeling the wetness swipe away as you glue your lips together.

"Baby," she says again. But you can't bear to look over. You keep your eyes fastened out at the night sky, almost black now.

"Can I though?!" you choke. "'Cause I've never been given permission before! All the foster parents who shouted at me for having the audacity to cry when they've taken me in - they didn't think so! All the- all the social workers who have rolled their eyes and told me to shut up 'cause they can't go home at night until I stop crying didn't think so! All the kids at school who called me a baby for getting upset at the Christmas concert didn't think so when they were told not to make a big deal about their own parents coming!"

A tall streetlight flashes in front of your eyes, illuminating your face for a split second.

"Why should I be allowed to cry when there's no one to tell me it's all gonna be okay and wipe away the tears? What's the point? What's the point in crying if no one even cares?!"

The engine roars loudly and the car seems to speed up, fastening you to the back of the seat.

"I'm so sorry, baby," she says. But you're not sure what she's apologising for. The fact that you're feeling like this or the fact that she's the one who caused it.