Demi Lovato Imagines

Posthumous pt.4

It's like that feeling when you're in a nightmare and the only way to escape is to be able to read a set of instructions that appears suddenly in your hands. But your eyes refuse to open fully and the words are always just out of reach, the feeling of danger approaching behind your back, curling a hand over your shoulder. And then you stand there for ages, willing yourself to just open your eyes, open them, and find the answer. But nothing changes. And then, all at once, you wake up in a room you recognise and you realise it was all just a dream and there is no danger after all. 

Except, in this case, it wasn't a room you recognised. And there most certainly was the presence of danger, dangling over your head in the form of beeping machines. 

You hear a gasp, your fingers squeezed inside a warm palm. Blinking, you turn towards it. Grandma. 

"You're awake."

Your throat is as dry as if you had been drinking sand. She stands, reaching for a small plastic cup on the table beside you, holding it up to your lips. It tasted soft and warm and you only take a sip. As a drip rolls down your chin, you rub the blanket's waffle pattern between your fingertips. 

"How're you feeling?"

You need to take a few deep breaths in order to get one word out. And, with each breath, the muscles between your ribs burn, begging you not to fill your lungs so much. 

"Sore," you croak. 

Grandma nods, sucking her lips between her teeth to keep from cracking. Her hand crawls further up your arm, your skin raising in goosebumps. 

"Do you want me to get the doctor?"

You close your eyes, out of breath. 

"Do you...Do you remember what happened? Do you...know why you're here?"

You remember the stinging all over your face, the flashing lights. The smell of petrol and the slick of it under your head. Grandma squeezes your arm gently, her thumb rubbing over one area of skin over and over until it feels hot. 

"Do you remember the ambulance? The paramedics, they said you were in and out of consciousness--"

"Where's mom?"

Your voice is so weak you wonder if you only heard it in your own head. When she doesn't answer, you open your eyes. 

"Honey, we need to focus on you just now--"

"Where's mom?"

She sighs, her chest deflating under her thin blouse. You notice the spotting of sweat on her upper lip and the hum of the aircon chugging away above the door. 

"You've had a shock. You're injured. Let me go and see if we can get you some more pain relief."

She stands, patting her thighs and looking around for nothing in particular. Rolling forward onto her toes, she nods at the silence then shuffles towards the door. Opening it, you hear the bustle of the ward outside before, all too soon, it's near silent again. 

You remember the man with the beard who came to your window, shouting in your face, pulling you by the armpits. You remember looking across at your mom, slumped across the gear shift, her dark hair sprawled across your legs, the blood making it sticky and warm. 

You remember the smell of the ambulance, the sour tang of chemicals. You remember the pinch as a needle was slid into the top of your hand. You remember asking the man in the black overalls, his strong hands holding you down on the stretcher, where she is. But you can't remember his answer. You can't even remember if you actually spoke the words out loud or whether they died on your lips.