Demi One-Shot

A Letter To Chelsey

"Stop it," Demi whispered under her breath, as her body rocked from side to side. "Stop it." She was sobbing as her head dropped to her knees. "Stop thinking about it." A cry of pain left her lips as her nails dug into her palm under where they'd been forced under her butt to resist the temptation.

It was a bad day for Demi. Losing friends left and right, holing herself up in her room with drugs and alcohol. She didn't have anyone to talk to. Her girlfriend, the only person she trusted, was in rehab for an eating disorder; in the exact same treatment center Demi was admitted into two years ago. Demi's only hope concerning that matter was that even though they were unable to cure her, her girlfriend had a chance.

Chelsey. To Demi, the name had a special ring to it. It spread a smile over her face each time she heard or even thought it. Except for now.

Chelsey had been the only person who still kept Demi sane, whose influence had her drop her blade and pick her running shoes up. But that was gone now. Chelsey didn't have a phone; it was taken when she was admitted. Demi had the option of sending her letters, but it would take a week to reach the girl, and that was as good as just flying over and delivering it herself.

Only one thing kept Demi together now: the weekend visits. Those two lifesaving hours she got to spend with her girl and hug and kiss her and pray she had enough strength to survive the journey.

It wasn't enough. Seeing her colorless, teary face for mere seconds before she buried it in the material of Demi's shirt and went to sleep in her arms. Demi didn't blame her for not wanting to talk or do anything active. That was what she did in rehab, after all. Her boyfriend used to fly down every two weeks and all she did was fall asleep with him.

"Stop it," Demi mumbled to herself, as she lifted one trembling hand to wipe tears away. "Stop thinking about her."

Just one thought consumed Demi entirely throughout the day; how much she missed her girlfriend. She couldn't stand being away from her, not knowing whether she'd pull through or not, not being there to comfort her herself. But Chelsey was recovering. She knew that. When she saw Demi on the weekends, sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she feels good enough to hold Demi's hand and go for walks with her around the treatment center.

It wasn't a lot of times.

But she was recovering. She should be, after a month in that hellhole. Some color is returning to her face, to those high cheekbones, to those lifeless eyes. And Demi couldn't be happier for her.

But then there's Demi. Saved one, twice, three times by that treatment center. She still remembered the last words her nurse said to her on the last day of her stay.

"I don't want to see you back here again, all right, Demi?"

She had smiled. "I won't. I promise. I'll keep myself together this time."

That promise lasted a year. Then things began to get bad again. And that's when it struck the girl. That maybe it was just her. Maybe it wasn't an illness. Maybe she was fucked up for life and no one could save her.

At some point in the last month, Demi decided that her life won't be a very long one if she kept going like this.

Mere minutes had passed before Demi was crying so hard that she could barely breathe. People questioned why she felt like this. She was Demi Lovato, international super star. She had award after award to her name. But what was all that worth when being herself was the last person she wanted to be?

Demi's fingers shook as they fumbled to open the box that she kept her blades in. It took her three tries to get the clasp open, and she nearly sliced the tip of her finger with a blade as she attempted to remove one.