Demi Lovato Imagines

Copycat

TW - self -harm

Your fingertips fly across the keyboard, words thrumming across the screen in long, thin lines, stretching and stretching out until it suddenly snaps in two and begins to grow underneath. You can hear them talking, your characters, their personalities sprouting out from the white pixels, their imagined bodies moving naturally through the screen, projected inside your head. There's a knock on the door and they all turn. You can see it now. They still with bated breath. The room shrinks like an old balloon. The handle turns. You press your brain to keep going, keep creating. Your characters are waiting. Who's on the other side of the door? The line cuts again and a new one forms. The pace of each new word slows. When the door opens, he...no wait, she...she...

You close your eyes, sighing. It's no use. It's gone. The line is left half finished and you lean your body into your desk so that the edge of the wood sticks painfully into your ribcage, holding your body still until it hurts so much you can't take it anymore. You slam your laptop closed. 

"I'm waiting!" your mom's voice shrills from downstairs. Sucking in slowly, you peel yourself off of your computer chair, grabbing your hoodie as you leave your room. When you get to the bottom of the stairs, you see her standing by the door, arms crossed, hip jutting to the left. 

"You said you were coming grocery shopping, yes?" she says sharply. You don't reply, silently shuffling past her and picking up your trainers, stuffing your feet into them without even undoing the laces. 

"I didn't need to offer, you know," she says, clearly unimpressed by your unwillingness to take the bait. "I am more than happy going on my own. "

"I'm coming, amen't I?!" you snap back, pointing to the shoes on your feet. "God, not everything has to be such a big deal mom!"

You reach for the door. She smacks her hand flat on the wood, stopping you from opening it. 

"Excuse me?"

You swallow thick saliva, focusing on the ghost of pain on your ribcage. 

"I'm not dealing with you today if you're going to be like this," she threatens. But the bags-for-life are already tucked under her arm and car keys in her hand. You stare her down. 

"Fine."

She waits for you to crack. 

You keep your hand on the doorknob. 

"Get in the car," she mutters, removing her weight from the wood and stepping back, allowing you to step outside and stomp to the passenger side. When she eventually gets in beside you, you notice her stony cheeks and her attempt to try and cover her face with her long, gold hair. She got it re-touched last week, you're pretty sure. You remember being in the house by yourself. 

"We won't be long," she says under her breath as if trying to lather aloe vera over the heat of her words only moments ago. 

"It's fine." You drop your head in your hand and look out the window. There's an audible silence that you know she's expecting you to fill. You don't. 

"I'm trying my best," she says after long minutes of driving. You push air out your nose, keeping your eyes glued outside so she doesn't see them starting to shine. 

"Y/n, please."

"What?!"

"Stop being like this! Like the whole world's against you! Do you have any idea how hard it--"