One Shot Series

Feeling Really Emotional

Demi's POV

I'd been waiting all day to get home, the day had had a terrible start, getting progressively worse throughout the day, ending in me crying in front of the entire office, making a complete fool of myself. I knew he wasn't home yet, but I was happy just to feel the comfort in my surroundings. As I walked through to the lounge I threw my keys into the little bowl sitting on top of the fireplace, kicking my shoes off angrily, tears beginning to stream down my face.

I'd found out my sister had gotten into a lot of trouble, and not just with the police, but with my father too and I dreaded any upcoming family meetings, seeing what he'd done to my younger sister. It made my stomach turn thinking about it, my head bobbing as I bolted to the toilet, getting there just in time. I was sick out of my nose, too upset to even control it, it burnt like hell, making me cry more. 

My sister was my natural arch enemy but the thought of my father hurting her sickened me, it always had, but I never did anything about it. My father was the type of man that liked to think he was intimidating, to some extent, he was. But no one would admit if they didn't think he was, they didn't dare, because that's when he got really scary. He lashed out at anyone, even his own family, the Irish were like that, tough, a little crazy and hard-headed. That's why I am the way I am. Stubborn, tough and the type of person that I'll see and think 'she's not gonna take no shit from no one.' it's how everyone saw me, apart from two people, my father, and Justin.

My father had never seen me as anything other than a girl, which he didn't like one bit, to him girls were useless. What could a girl do? They couldn't beat a guy up at the click of your fingers, even though I did. And they couldn't carry a gun without it being seen, but I did. I'd managed to do a lot of things growing up that my father didn't think a girl was capable of, but even then, he was never satisfied. Growing up I'd always done the same as my sister, many times, better. But that seemed to make her hate me more, knowing that I was better than her, she wouldn't believe it. I was glad when I'd been offered a flat share from a friend at the age of 18, close to my university, and now, I was living in LA with an honours degree in English Language and a job at a huge magazine company as Chief Editor, in charge of layout, design and the stories published. It was like a slap in the face when my father found out, and naturally, I couldn't help but feel victorious.

Justin, on the other hand, saw me as powerful, a bit strange and definitely tough. When he first met me, I was pinning a guy to the floor, his face pressed against the concrete, his hands behind his back, squirming under my grip. He'd thought he was funny, slapping my friend as I walked into a club and I wasn't having none of it, my friend was my ex but still my best friend and I hated seeing people objectify him. Justin was walking out of the club, clearly not impressed with it, waiting for a cab when I grabbed the guy by the back of the neck and pinned him to the floor at my friend's feet, ordering him to apologise. Justin was the one to talk me down, telling me that men like that weren't worth the trouble and I eventually let go. After a while I'd started going out for drinks, then dinners and then I'd started dating. He'd seen me at my worst and he'd seen me ready to kick the shit out of someone but I wasn't ready for him to see me today, I felt worse than my usual worst but still needed him all the same.

When my spout of vomiting had finished I dragged myself to the kitchen, making myself a cup of tea before settling down on the sofa, my skirt hitched up so I could sit with my legs crossed, staring at the blank TV hung on the wall. I was dragged from my staring contest with the TV screen when I heard the jangle of keys at the front door but I didn't turn to look, I just looked down at my tea, waiting for him to find me. He realised I was home when he dropped his keys in the bowl, I hadn't told him I was coming back a little earlier than usual.

"Hey baby." He called walking through the house, he stopped when he kicked one of my shoes, looking around at the perfectly tidy lounge apart from my shoes at different ends of the room and myself, sat on the sofa, legs crossed, tea in my lap, sitting completely still, not taking my gaze from the tea in my cup. He knew then that there was something wrong, he gathered my shoes and put them neatly at the end of the sofa, crouching down in front of me and taking the tea from my hands. My daily work make up covering my cheeks in streaks of black and my eyes now a puffy red.