Demi Lovato Imagines

The Bad Place

You hear her downstairs. Pacing. Like she always does when the sun is just tall enough to peek through the blinds. When you can see the dust dancing in the beams of orange light that stripe the room. When you can hear the cars outside, going back and forth, like the way you push the little plastic ones around the floor of your bedroom. One time, you heard a really big car. You could tell because it was noisier made your heart start beating really fast because you thought it was time. You stayed as quiet as you could, getting out of bed and standing on your tip toes at the window, peeling the corner of cardboard away from the glass. Mom doesn't know about the corner. You press it back down every time. But you like being able to look outside. 

The car you saw wasn't like any car you'd seen before. And it wasn't like any of your toys. It was big. A rectangle. And had more wheels. Two men in orange clothes hung out the back of it. You drew it in your book even though your grey pen had gone dry so you did it in purple. Mom saw it and shouted at you, asking what it was supposed to be. A car, you said. Where did you see a car like that, she shouted louder, holding your paper far away. You started to cry then, not wanting to tell her about the corner but not knowing what else to say. She didn't say anything else either and then she ripped up the paper and put it in the fire. You cried more then and stomped upstairs. But you wanted to get further than upstairs. You wanted to climb higher, out through the roof and into the sky. You remember the sky. Especially at night when there were stars and dad would ask you what shapes you saw. That was before, though. And now is now. 

You wait, lying on your back, waiting for her footsteps to stop. If you go down too early she'll get mad and refuse to make you french toast. You'll have to have cereal without milk because she only uses milk for french toast or coffee. And you don't like coffee. You do like french toast though. With syrup. But there isn't any syrup left. Mom said she would get more but that was a long time ago. More than lots of days ago. Mom doesn't have any breakfast. Not like you do. The time you asked her why, she had her head lying on the table and there was a puddle under her feet like you used to get when you were little and had only just stopped wearing pull-ups. She pointed at the orange pots on the counter that were empty. That was my breakfast, she said but you didn't understand. The next day, she was cooking your french toast and the puddle was gone. 

You open your eyes. The footsteps have stopped. Now it's just quiet and so you rub your feet up and down the mattress so that it makes a whooshing noise and fills your ears instead. You don't like the quiet. It makes you scared that she's gone too. After counting to thirty, the highest number you know, you sit up, stand up, and walk over to the door. 

She's on the big chair. The one beside the front door. She stares at the locks and bolts and wires wrapped around the locks and bolts. Slowly, you shuffle down the stairs. 

"Momma?"

She doesn't move. She must not have heard you. Getting a little closer. 

"Momma, I'm hungry."

You tug on her sleeve, fingers brushing against her long brown hair that you love. Her arm feels hard as she holds onto the fabric of the chair, one hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun that sits between her knees. You don't like it when she makes you practice holding it. It's heavy and you cry when she makes you point it at the pictures she draws on the wall. You've never actually fired it, though. Not with a real bullet. It would make too much noise, she said, and we've got neighbours. You try to think of their faces now, that feeling that there's a memory of them buried deep inside your brain and doesn't want to come out. A short lady, a fat man. No faces. You give up. 

Walking to the kitchen, you get the box of cereal out of the cupboard, eating messy handfuls as you return to the front door. 

"Are you going out today?"