Demi Lovato Imagines

Horror

The hilt of the knife is heavy in my hand but I hold it up to my chest, blade pointing forward into the dark. Wind shakes the window behind, filling the air with a drumming sound. I can't hear where she is anymore.

Should have put shoes on, I think, scanning my eyes around the floor looking for a couple of dark patches where I might have left a pair of trainers. Even my work shoes would do. But I can't see them. I can't see anything. The glass rattles again.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," her voice chimes, like a child playing a game. This is a game to her. She's finding this fun. I grip the knife tighter and press back further into the wall, the frame of the wardrobe stabbing into my spine.

The hallway outside the door remains a chasm of darkness, a cliff edge crumbling over itself atop two flights of stairs. Being pushed down would kill you. Would kill me. I picture my broken body lying at the bottom, a halo of blood growing out from my cracked skull. Would it hurt?

The soft hair of the cat brushes along my ankles and I shift my foot to the side, trying to push him away. His tail curls like a question mark, asking me what's going on, why am I rejecting him. I clamp my bottom lip under my teeth.

"I know you're up here," she sings again. My eyes have grown accustomed to the darkness and I can make out the shape of the bannister outside, its sprouting spindles. What does it see? What does it know? I've lived in this house for years now, run my hand along it every day. Did it see this coming? Was I the idiot who missed something?

A dark shadow stretches across the landing, bleeding out. Some light from outside catches the sparkle in her eyes.

"Gotcha."

She runs into the room, hands outstretched towards me as I thrust my own forward, hoping to find some connection. But the blade swerves, catching on something then diverting across, thumping on the carpet. A large slash cuts across her abdomen and she screams.

"You bitch!" she cries, stumbling back and gripping her front as if trying to keep her insides from spilling out. It was superficial though. I know that. I know that won't stop her. Taking the opportunity, I kick out hard into the soft part of her stomach, doubling her over. I try to run. Wriggling out of the corner of the room, my shoulder knocks against the corner of the wardrobe, right into the bone sending a throbbing ache right into the base of my skull. My step falters as I anchor my sight on the bannister.

Stepping again, I worry my socked foot it going to impale itself on the dropped knife. But that fear quickly dissolves when her hand slaps around my ankle. I hear a grunt leave my mouth as my other knee buckles and I crumple to the floor.

"Get off of me!" I yell desperately, trying to drag myself to the door, skin burning across the rough carpet. She's got two hands on my leg now, inching further and further up, pulling me further and further in. In seconds, she will be fully on top of me. In another few, I'll probably be dead.

"Stop fighting," she growls. I scream, praying someone will hear me. But its the middle of the night. No one will be on the street and no one will leave the safety of their home to answer a cry from number forty-six. I doubt anyone believes someone still lives here. I haven't walked out that front door since last year.

"Please, Demi," I sob, using my hands now to push her away. Her cheeks are cold and I catch my knuckle on her teeth, chipping my skin.

"Stop fighting," she repeats, voice still low and commanding. I can't breathe. She wraps her fingers around my wrists now, pinning me to the floor. One knee presses painfully into my gut.

"Why do you always make things so difficult for me?" she asks, an inch above me. Her words puff against my face. Mint. And green tea. I made that for her.