Chances That You're Burning Through

Original | Chapter Fourteen

~Demi's POV~

Pregnant. Not very far along. But definitely pregnant.

That's what Kim told me before she went to check on Anabelle.

I sit on the cold floor with my back pressed against the wall and my knees pulled close to me.

"Worst fucking timing ever," I mumble, crossing my arms, placing my crossed arms on my knees, and hiding my face.

"Hermosa, what's wrong?" Wilmer approaches me.

"Nothing," I lie, plastering a fake smile on my face and raising my head.

"Anabelle's awake," he grins.

"Really?" I squeal, returning the genuine grin, while rising to my feet.

He nods. With another squeal, I hug him, hooking my arms around his neck as he lifts me up.

"What room?" He returns me to my feet.

"323."

I begin to run, which isn't easy to do in high heels.

"Demi!" He scolds while laughing.

"Meet me there!" I direct over my shoulder.

I collide with Kim outside room 319-literally.

"Demi," she keeps me upright by gripping my forearms. "Are you seriously running after I told you-," I harshly shush her. "Your husband's going to find out eventually," she glares.

"I'm aware of that," I roll my eyes. "But right now is just really bad timing."

She nods.

"Should've thought of that before you two-,"

"You're not helping."

With a small smirk and raised eyebrows, she points to a room a couple of doors down.

"There's Anabelle's room," I'm hustling to the room before she even finishes her statement. "No more running, Demi!" I switch to a fast-pace walk, practically hearing Kim's eyeballs roll in their sockets.

Peeking in the room, my eyes become misty at the sight of my daughter, pale and gaunt, laying in the hospital bed with layers of thick white bandages covering her arms. Her brown hair appears to be thin and brittle. Her cheeks are hollow. Her clavicle juts out sharply, as do her shoulders. Her upper arms are twig-like, seemingly able to snap just under my gaze. Although the rest of her body is covered by a white blanket, I can tell that her stomach has caved in and that her hip bones protrude. She's cold, visibly shivering.

But that's exactly what you wanted at her age, yes? To look like that? Well, in a way, now that wish has indirectly been granted. You get to see it firsthand.

I swallow what feels like a hockey puck sized lump, desperately hoping I won't be too loud with my clacking heels.

"Anabelle?" I wince at the crack in my voice as the door shuts behind me with a soft click.

She turns her hard gaze on me, trying to keep her shivering to a minimum. It's hard to see her this way, so frigid-both literally and metaphorically-and distant.

"You should've let me go," her cold eyes demand my attention. "You should've let me die. Why didn't you just let me die?" Her voice escalates as I take a step back, knocking into the door. "Just let me go! I want to die! Let me die!"

Anabelle's desperate, screaming pleas cause my stomach to lurch uneasily. My heart shatters at the sight of her so disheveled, so unstable, so broken. I'm numb, frozen.