Chances That You're Burning Through

Original | Chapter Seventeen

~Anabelle's POV~

I previously had no intentions of sharing my life story with anyone, especially not Demi. I never wanted to spill my guts to her or to anyone, for that matter, in fear of being judged or pitied or looked at differently. But I do tell her everything.

I tell her about my first adoptive parents and how they died. I tell her how it felt being bounced around from foster home to foster home. I tell her about my unstable childhood, about how I cut myself for the first time and why I skipped a meal once that turned into an addictive cycle. But most importantly, I tell her about Danny Sanders.

I don't brace myself for her reaction; however, I don't expect her reaction to be what it is: silence. She's silent as she ushers me to follow her and leads us to my bathroom.

"Are you ignoring me?" I place my box on the bathroom counter and nervously bite my lower lip. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," she mumbles, shaking her head.

"Then, what's wrong? Why are you-,"

"What's wrong?" She scoffs incredulously. "Well, for starters, I'm going to end up in jail for murdering that son of a bitch."

I lower my gaze to the floor as she angrily paces.

"I gave you up, putting my faith in the system to keep you safe. And what do they do?" She throws her hands up. "They hand you off to somebody who ruins your childhood by beating you and-God, Anabelle," she sits on the closed toilet, burying her face in her hands.

"Hey," I gently approach her, placing a hand on her shaking shoulder. "Why are you crying?"

"I failed you."

"You didn't fail me."

"He molested you!" She cries, her voice strangled by tears. "I basically gave you the childhood that I never wanted you to have! I went through the same shit, Anabelle, and I didn't want that for you! I didn't want you to have to suffer through constant flashbacks and memories haunting you for the rest of your life!"

Her face is flushed bright red from tears and anger. Her nostrils flare as she tries to take deep calming breaths. Her eye makeup has smeared. She's going to make herself sick, much like I did outside, if she keeps getting so flustered. As if on cue, she drops to the floor, lifts up the toilet lid, and pukes. I pull her hair back away from her face and flush the toilet once she's finished. She then sits with her back pressed against the wall and her eyes closed.

"Come here," she gently commands, patting her lap.

"I'll crush you," I force a laugh.

Her eyes snap open as she narrows them at me. With a reluctant sigh, I grab my box and cautiously oblige.

"I'm not a three year old," I grumble.

"Consider it making up for lost time," she runs her fingers through my hair.

"So, you're not mad at me?"

"Mad?" She echoes, as if the word is foreign to her. "I'm disappointed. I'm confused. What are you doing with cocaine, Anabelle? You told me that you've never-,"

"I haven't," I truthfully defend.

"Then why do you have it?"

"I just wanted it there, in case I needed it. I don't know. I'm making no sense," I ramble, feeling like a guilty, ashamed idiot.

"You're making perfect sense," she surprises me by contradicting my statement. "It was like your safety net, a reassurance that no matter what happened, no matter how difficult or horrible things seemed to be, you could instantly make it better. Simply having it in your possession made you feel in control."