Demi Lovato Imagines

Numb pt.2

Three days later

The soft fabric of the sofa presses against your skin, gravity holding the two of you together as you sit, motionless, in the living room. Your feet are squeezed of blood, tucked under your crossed legs, fuzziness spreading from the tips of your toes to your ankles. Your hands lie uselessly on your front, rising and falling in time with your slow breathing. They shake, sometimes, as your stomach grumbles. It happens every few minutes. It gets louder, more persistent. It reminds you of what your body needs to keep going.

You don't want to keep going.

Your body can call out to you as much as it likes, you're not going to come and help. Because you're almost there.

You can feel it already. The 'un-feeling'. The numbness. It holds you tight at night, promising that it will come for you soon and then you won't have to worry about anything anymore. It gives you hope that, maybe this time, you won't have to open your eyes again and live with this mess any longer. It empties your mind, displacing all cognitive function with cotton wool, making it impossible for you to react to anything in your surroundings.

That includes Demi.

For the past however long it's been, she's been running about you; sitting by you; pestering you. You can hear her voice, from the other end of a tunnel, calling for you. Asking you to speak to her. Begging you to eat something. You don't reply. The numbness has spread a thick layer of glue across each and every one of your teeth, fixing them together. But even so, even if you could, you wouldn't reply. You don't have anything to say.

The only things that are still working are your eyes. They move gradually around the room, attracted only by movement or sudden sound. Which is usually Demi, admittedly. They notice the difference, too. They notice how your girlfriend has been getting more and more desperate, her appearance degrading each time you cast your gaze towards her. Her clothes never change, just get more crumpled and stained. Her hair is getting more tangled. Her eyes are getting more red. More, more, more. That's what your eyes say. But the cotton wool packed inside your cranium blocks any of this from reaching the parts of your brain that would tell you to do something. The parts that would mechanise you again so you can stand up, take her hands, and tell her to get some sleep. And maybe take a shower.

So, at the moment, your eyes are the things causing you the most grief. You figure they will be the last to go.

Can't wait.

The sofa dips beside you. Your whole body shifts under its own dead weight.

"Y/n," she whispers. Or, at least, it sounds like only a whisper, "Baby, please talk to me?"

Her voice is pleading. More so than it was a few hours ago when she last tried.

"Please?"

You feel her hand on your arm, her shaking fingers brushing across your skin. She sits like this for a few more minutes, hoping that, just maybe, this time, you will respond.

"Y/n, I think I need to call someone. I need someone to help. You're scaring me..." she trails off as if she was hoping that this threat would work. That you would suddenly become animated again and get to your knees, begging her not to phone.

"...Because I don't think I can-...do this anymore. I can't help you and I feel like I'm failing you...You won't eat, you won't move...you've completely shut down..."

Your slow eyes move to her hands that are now twisting and tugging each other on her lap. You can see, although you wish you couldn't, the harsh red marks scratched into her skin. And the way her fingernails itch at the parts still clean.