~Demi's POV~
"Nick?" I open my door, in response to him ringing the doorbell, with a bewildered expression. "What are you doing here?"
"May I come in?" he hesitantly inquires. "I need to talk to you."
His serious tone causes me to raise my eyebrows as I step back, allowing him to enter my home, and I gently close the door behind him.
"What's up?" I cross my arms over my chest in an effort to shake off the late nighttime chill that breezed in.
"He, uh, he told me," he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking rather uncomfortable, which is odd considering we have been best friends since we were teenagers.
"Who told you what?" I nervously chuckle at his vagueness.
"Are the girls awake?" he wonders.
"No," I furrow my eyebrows at his sudden topic shift in conversation. "They're asleep."
I don't bother adding that Wilmer's out with a couple of friends.
He nods.
"Joe told me, Demi."
I make a hand gesture, as if telling him to continue and get to the point already.
"Joe told me that he thinks that Anabelle might be his daughter," my blood suddenly feels like ice in my veins, and not because of the cold. "But that's ridiculous, right?" I remain silent. "Demi?"
I bite my bottom lip as it trembles. Tears prick my eyes, more so out of anger and frustration than sadness.
"It's not ridiculous," I whisper, unable to look him in his eyes for fear of being judged. "Anabelle...she-she's my daughter, and she-she's Joe's daughter, and you-you and Kevin and Frankie are-are her uncles and..." I choke out my words between cries that threaten to convulse my body, trailing off as a sobbing fit causes my body to crumble.
Feeling weak, I slide down the wall behind me, hiding my face within my knees, the soft, silky fabric of my pajama shorts tickling my skin. Before I can reach the floor, two strong arms wrap around me, hoisting me upwards, and soon gently placing me on the couch. He murmurs reassuring words to me as I force myself to get a grip on my emotions, to stop acting so vulnerable.
"Why are you crying?" he softly asks.
"He-he's not supposed to know. You're-you're not supposed to know."
"Why not? I have about fourteen years of present spoiling to make up for."
"You don't get it, Nick," I sniffle, breaking away from his embrace.
"Then help me understand, Demi."
"He didn't want her," I darkly admit, my tone low, almost growl-like, animalistic even,...protective.
"Demi, that can't be true. He-,"
"It is true!" I raise my voice, not even caring at this point if I wake the girls. "He wanted me to get a fucking abortion, Nick!"
His lips purse tightly into a frown as his facial features cloud over, becoming darker, becoming uncharacteristic for him.
Then, much to my surprise, he rises to his feet and storms out of my house without so much as a simple goodbye wave.
I blink at the now empty space that he was previously occupying. Confused, drained, and feeling as if I am on auto-pilot, I slowly, numbly, make my way to the front door that he left open in his haste to leave.
Just as I am about to push the door shut, Nick barges through with Joe in tow.
"I had him waiting in the car," Nick stiffly explains.
I shut the door as they enter. We three stand in the middle of my living room. Nick scowls at his older brother. If looks could kill, Joe would be chilling comfortably in a coffin.
"Joe?" The familiar name rolls off of Nick's tongue much harsher than usual, as if the word is poison on his lips.
"Hm?"
"Is it or is it not true that you told Demi to get an abortion when she told you that she was pregnant?"
Joe glares at me. For a moment, I fear that he is going to deny it and that, in result, Nick isn't going to believe me. My heart hammers painfully in my chest just at the mere thought.
"You said that you wouldn't tell anyone, Nick"
"Don't even try to pull the guilt card, brother," Nick spats the last word with so much anger, so much disgust and, dare I say, hatred.
You're tearing their close-brotherly relationship to shreds, and you don't even care. I wince at the nagging voice in the back of my mind.
"It's true," Joe admits in a bored tone, not removing his gaze from mine. "I told her to get an abortion, but she wouldn't listen. To be honest, I still stand by my decision. It would've saved a lot of headache, don't you think? But, Demi, you just had to be stubborn. You just had to go looking for her after you gave her up. Speaking of which, doesn't that make us one and the same?"
"I am nothing like you," to my surprise, my voice is calm and even despite the deep loathing and frustration that I feel.
"But aren't you?" he raises his eyebrows with an arrogant smirk. "You gave up on her. You didn't want her either."
"That's not true!" I resist the sudden urge to charge at him, to strike him, to literally slap that smirk off of his face. "I had to get myself straightened out before I could even dream about caring for another human being."
"Did you?" I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. "I mean, your issues are diseases of the mind, correct? If so, you could've changed your mindset at any time but you didn't want to; instead, you wanted to and did throw yourself a pity party."
My jaw slackens. His words feel as if he slapped me. I feel winded, finding it difficult to breathe.
He's making a valid point. Face it, you weren't even that sick when you entered treatment, nowhere close to being as sick as some of those other patients. You're pathetic, especially for seeking sympathy and pity for problems that were blown way out of proportion. Joe's right.
Nick reels his arm back, sending a fist into Joe's abdomen. I want to scream, to separate the two of them, to do something other than standing like an imbecile. The voice in the back of my mind continues to pester me, causing my head to pound and for a slightly woozy feeling to nearly bring me to my knees.
"Nick," my voice resembles that of a hoarse whisper. "Stop."
Nick turns to look at me, an incredulous expression on his face.
"Stop?" He echoes. "Demi, did you not just hear what he said to you?"
"Of course I heard!" I snap without intention.
His gaze softens.
"Are you okay?"
Translation: 'You don't believe him, do you? You're not going to do anything stupid because of what he said, right?'
"I'm fine," I lie, forging a toothless smile.
"Are you sure?"
Translation: 'I don't believe you.'
"Yeah," I nod.
"Nick," Joe straightens up, wincing only ever so slightly, before shoving his younger brother, causing me to inhale sharply. "Do you mind giving Demi and myself a moment alone, please?"
Why does he want to talk to me, and why can't Nick be in the room when he's doing so?
"Actually, I do mind," Nick crosses his arms over his chest.
"Nick, please?" I weakly try, eliciting a nod.
"I'll be waiting out in the car," he announces, walking towards the front door. "Call if you need anything," He directs to me from over his shoulder before quietly shutting the door as he exits.
Heaving a sigh, I walk past Joe and to the bottom of the staircase, peering upwards to see if any of the girls' bedroom doors are open, indicating that they're awake. None of the doors are open, and I don't hear anything either.
"Thank God they managed to sleep through all of that," I mutter more to myself, but Joe, for some reason, must still feel a need to comment, or maybe he just enjoys the sound of his own voice, of being the one that everyone else has to listen to; it wouldn't surprise me if that were the case.
"Especially with you screaming like you were."
"Oh, you mean the screams that you provoked?" He just smirks. "Wipe that smirk off of your face. I didn't even mean it like that."
"I can provoke those kinds of screams, too."
"In your dreams, Jonas," I scoff.
"Perhaps, Lovato," I scrunch my nose up in disgust.
"Don't you have a girlfriend?" I point out, referring to Ashley.
"Kind of," He shrugs.
"Kind of? You really haven't changed, have you? You haven't grown up at all."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he looks truly offended.
"It means just what I said. You don't care about the feelings of other people. All you care about is yourself. You're selfish, Joe. Hell, your own daughter, who you just found out about might I add, is upstairs and you don't even care. You're hopeless. "
"And you're doing nothing but hurling insults at me."
I bite the inside of my cheek, swallowing a string of immature retorts and curses. Someone has to be the adult here, and it sure isn't going to be Joe.
"What do you want, Joe?" I sigh.
"What do I want?" He hums thoughtfully, advancing towards me slightly. "Well, a relationship with my daughter wouldn't hurt."
"It might not hurt you, but her...God, Joe, she hates you. And she has only met you once."
"Maybe I can get her to love me."
"You don't want her to love you. You don't want her. Quit acting like you do."
"You don't know what I want."
"You've made it perfectly clear."
"Have I?"
"Ye-," His lips attack mine with a familiar hunger that I once craved, that once made my body feel like a passionate inferno, but now only causes my stomach to churn with a queasy sensation.
I squirm, managing to place my hands on his chest in an attempt to push him off of me to no avail. My heart races uneasily as he presses his body more forcibly against mine, his right hand trailing upwards from my left kneecap and toying with the thin, flowy hem of my shorts.
"J-Joe, stop," I can hear my heart hammering in my ears, causing my head to pound so badly that I fear that I might pass out.
Either he doesn't hear my barely audible plead, or he chooses to ignore me, for his mouth releases mine, only to travel down my neck-biting, sucking, kissing, clearly leaving marks-as his hand slips within my shorts, sliding up my inner thigh.
"Joe, stop," I command, my tone louder.
He doesn't listen.
I slam my knee into his lower abdomen, hoping that I struck where Nick previously punched.
He releases me and doubles over, his hands curled protectively over his abdomen as I scurry away from him.
"Demi," he wheezes, struggling to stand upright.
My heart continues to beat extremely rapidly, and my hands tremble terribly. I find myself reliving flashbacks of being molested as a child by my own biological father as well as me willingly giving myself to random strangers during my drunken, self-destructive teenage years.
"I'm sorry," he comes closer to me with one hand outstretched, as if about to help me to my feet or to place a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"No. Don't come near me," I curse my voice for quivering.
"Demi, I'm sorry," he repeats.
"I don't care!" I cry, tears freely streaming down my cheeks as my breathing speeds up just as rapidly as my heart beating. "You don't get to apologize."
"I don't know why-,"
"Just leave," I bend my legs, tucking my knees closer to my body and folding my elbows over my knees, hiding my face in the crooks of my elbows.
Relief washes over me as soon as I hear the front door close, though that nagging voice in the back of mind as well as my own memories continue to taunt me.
Whether it's my flashbacks distorting my perception of reality or that negative inner voice of mine convincing me of something false, I swear that I hear the soft pattering of a child's footsteps and the sound of a door gently clicking shut.
~
~
~Rebecca's POV~
~
~
"5SOS! 5SOS!" I hear a familiar alarmed voice, followed by someone shaking my shoulder, awakening me from my peaceful slumber.
"What?" I sit up, bleary-eyed, yet still acknowledging that the person who awoken me was Brianna.
She stands at my bedside, her dark brown, slightly curly hair a wild tangled mess sprawled out atop her head, her mud colored brown eyes wide, alarmed, and alert as she hugs her white teddy bear against her chest.
It is then that the groggy haze is lifted from my mind.
5SOS.
Our code.
Created after listening to throwback songs from an Australian boy band of the same name, Bri, after being informed about what exactly 'SOS' means, started to use the title as an exclamation whenever she seeked my comfort during say, for example, a loud argument between our parents (They don't argue often, but, when they do, it's loud and not easy to ignore) or when mom is having a particularly difficult, struggling day (The older I become, the less frequent I am noticing her having these extremely difficult days, but these days still do happen. These days both worry and scare Bri, a lot of which is a result of her lack of knowledge and understanding of mom's past, so badly to the point where she gets nightmares.)
I sit bolt upright in my bed.
"What's wrong?" I wince when my voice cracks from the panic that I'm trying to not convey around the almost-eight-year-old.
"Y'know all of those times when mommy and daddy kiss?"
I blink at her. I slam the back of my head against my pillows, chuckling out of pure relief.
"Yes, Bri," I crane my neck towards her. "We've been over this before. All you gotta do is look away and go to
your room. Oh, and if you hear any, erm,....strange....noises, turn the volume up on your television, listen to your music loudly while not being afraid to scream the lyrics at the top of your lungs, and play with your dolls," I pause, scrunching my nose in thought. "What are you doing up anyways?"
"Bathroom. You're missing my point, Bec-Bec."
"Okay, then. What's your point?"
She exhales, as if dealing with a frustratingly difficult child, and places a hand on her hip.
"Stop imitating mom, and get to your point, Bri."
"Is mommy supposed to kiss other people like she kisses daddy?"
"What are you talking about?" I slowly return to my sitting position, swinging my legs off of the side of my bed.
"Mommy was kissing that guy from dinner. The mean one."
"Joe?"
She nods.
"When?"
"Just now," she shrugs.
"Mom cheated on dad with Joe," I whisper, my statement sounding more like a question to my own ears.
"What does 'cheated' mean?" Bri innocently cocks her head to the side. "Is it something bad? Is mommy in trouble?"
"No, no, baby-girl. Mommy isn't in trouble."
Not yet, at least. I bite my lower lip, wondering how and why she would ever fathom cheating on my dad, let alone actually doing it. They've always seemed so happy, so in love. Even when they fight, they always make up soon after. I've dreamed to have a love as strong and as trustworthy as theirs one day, but I guess true love is only real in fairy tales and movies.
She couldn't have actually cheated on him, could she?
"Why don't you go back to bed, mkay?" I suggest. "And then we'll talk about this tomorrow," I add, knowing that she'll probably forget about the whole fiasco by the morning, totally oblivious to how serious the situation actually is.
"Alright. Night-night, sissy."
"Night, Bri," I kiss her forehead, watching as she exits my room.
With my mind swirling with questions that I yearn to be answered, I swiftly slip out from underneath my duvet, sliding my feet into a pair of red studded slippers and making my way to Anabelle's room.
At first, I find it difficult to distinguish her tiny frame within the massive bed and pile of blankets. Speaking of which, why does she need so many blankets to sleep under? She can't honestly be that cold, can she? Mentally shrugging, I approach her bedside.
I outstretch a hand, shaking her shoulder and resisting a gasp as I can feel her hard, rigid skeletal structure protruding from the thin, purple tee-shirt that covers her. Her body fat is practically non-existent!
"Anabelle!" I loudly whisper.
She murmurs, stirring awake and rolling over so that she is facing me.
"What?" Her voice is raspy from sleep.
Do I tell her now? Do I tell her at all? If I do tell her, how do I tell her? Will she even care? I mean, my mom is her biological mom, too, not that she knows that.
"Bec, what is it? You can tell me anything," she slowly raises to a sitting position.
I inhale deeply, summoning up courage.
"Mom, uh, sh-she, um," my voice cracks for the second time since I woke up, this time due to the fact that I'm struggling to hold back tears. "She cheated on my dad," I whisper before erupting into tears.
Anabelle wraps her tiny arms around me, lowering me to a sitting position on the edge of her bed.
"Shhh. It's going to be okay," She soothes. "I know it may not seem like it will right now, but trust me when I say that it does get better."
"They'll-they'll get through it, right?"
"They've been through a lot, Bec. I'm sure this is nothing but a walk in the park," she tries to lighten the mood, rubbing comforting circles into my back as I continue to cry.
"It's going to be okay," she repeats.
I don't know who she's trying to reassure more: me or herself.
~
~
~Demi's POV~
~
~
By the time Wilmer returns home, my sobs have ceased, and my hands have stopped shaking, but that pestering voice is now screaming, and I'm feigning sleep in our bed. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut and deliberately slowing down my breathing rate, I hear the clink of his belt buckle hit the floor as he strips down to his boxers and slides underneath the duvet beside me. I'm shocked to feel a shiver of fear shoot up my spine.
Fuck, Joe, what have you done?
I shouldn't feel scared around my husband, my best friend, el amor de mi vida, especially when he has done absolutely nothing wrong.
You're pathetic, Demi. Just like Joe implied. You're worthless and stupid. You even gave your own daughter up, and now you're acting petrified of your own husband. You're a terrible mom and a terrible wife.
I gently curl myself up in the fetal position, pressing my face into a pillow to muffle my cries and absorb my tears.
Why must I still suffer? Why can't I be one hundred percent fixed already?
By the time Wilmer's snores begin to bounce off of the walls of the room, my face is sticky from dried tears and flushed from having my face smashed into the pillow, but my thoughts still rage on, seeming to be only growing louder. Easily, as to not disturb Wilmer, I slip out of bed and make my way to the master bathroom attached to my bedroom. I flip on the lightswitch, closing the door behind me but not bothering to lock it. I mentally scowl at my reflection in the mirror. As a result of my crying, my eye makeup has created wild black streaks against my upper cheeks, both of my cheeks are red and blotchy, and my nose resembles that of Rudolph's.
And yet you still continue to throw yourself pity parties.
I flinch as if I touched a hot curling iron.
Do I honestly do nothing but imply that I seek pity?
Yes. You always have, just like Joe was trying to tell you. He was only speaking the truth, Demi. You didn't have to be so rude.
My eyes drift downwards to my neck. Tilting my head, I can clearly see the small, purple bruises that Joe left. Honestly, because there are multiple bruises, it looks like one large bruise. I want to throw up just at the sight, just at the thought of him kissing me like that. Although I can't explain why, I feel guilty, as if the entire ordeal was my fault, which, in a way, is true.
am the one who decided to join his family for dinner. I am the one who decided to adopt Anabelle after searching for her for years. I am the one who decided to get knocked up at seventeen. The list goes on and on.
I scrub my face clean of makeup and repeatedly splash cold water against my boiling skin.
You're such a failure, such a fuck-up.
I allow my head to droop as I turn off the water, fatigue suddenly weighing heavily on my shoulders. The dark circles under my eyes are prominent. But I know that, as a result of all of the flashbacks that I was forced to relive earlier, if I try to sleep, it'll be a restless slumber full of dreadful nightmares.
There's an idea....resting on the edge of your bathtub just waiting for you,
My hands twitch as my gaze catches a hold of my my shimmering razor blade's reflection in the mirror. Triggered is an understatement to how I feel right now. I've been triggered since Joe accused me of throwing myself numerous pity parties.
It's not his fault his accusation was accurate.
With a slight, helpless whimper, I sit cross-legged on the cold, tiled bathroom floor with my hands tucked underneath my thighs. I rock back and forth, pleading for the triggering thoughts to go away, for it seems that I don't have the strength to return to my bedroom without potentially giving in and harming myself.
"Shut up," I mutter, bowing my head. "Please, just shut up."
Only if you give in, Demi.
"No," I still look up at the instrument that beckons me.
My arm shoots out, my hand hastily gripping onto the pink handled razor and soon retrieving the vital blades. I toss one of the blades back and forth, abandoning the other blades and the shattered remains of the razor. Biting my lower lip, I trail the edge of the blade up and down my left forearm, not pressing deep enough to draw blood or to even leave a scratch. A cold shiver of anticipating pleasure shimmies up my spine. That inner voice coaxes me, urging me to separate my tender flesh, to make myself bleed.
Shaking my head, I try to push aside the roaring voice as I rise to my feet with the blade cupped in my closed fist. I return to my bedroom, approaching Wilmer's side of the bed.
Do I wake him?
No, especially not over something so petty.
"Babe?" I whisper, gently shaking his shoulder.
His eyelids flutter open, revealing dazed chocolate brown eyes that soon show concern and confusion. The sliver of light peeking through the bathroom door that I left ajar illuminates the room only a tiny bit, casting shadows across every surface.
"Have you been crying?" He cups one side of my face, the pad of his thumb stroking my cheek.
I close my eyes, nodding my head.
"Why, hermosa?" He sits up.
I thrust my hand that holds the blade outwards, uncurling my fingers to show him the potentially dangerous object. He inhales sharply.
"Give it to me, Demi," He gently commands, holding his hand out, palm opened.
I shake my head, taking a step back.
"Demi, you obviously don't want to use it. If you did, you wouldn't have woken me up."
"I-I might need it," I shamefully admit.
"No," he shakes his head. "You won't. You're stronger than that, Demi. This is just a bad night, okay? It's not worth it. Think about, Anabelle. She's struggling, too. Don't you want her to be strong enough to resist her demons?"
"Of course."
"Then lead by example."
I hesitate, staring at the shiny object in my hand for what seems like an eternity, before dropping the blade into his palm.
"Are there anymore?"
"Bathroom floor," I mumble.
He rises to his feet and pecks my lips before entering the bathroom. I crawl into bed, releasing a small sigh when I hear the toilet flush, signaling that he got rid of my almost-major-mistake. He soon joins me, and I snuggle against him, no longer feeling that irrational sense of fear around him. He wraps his arms around me, and I allow my eyelids to drift close.
"Goodnight, hermosa," he plants a kiss atop the crown of my head.
"Night, baby," I mumble, sleep already beginning to overpower me.
"Remember that you're always stronger than you may think."
~
I wake up the next morning to cold sheets beside me and the smell of food cooking. Reaching over to my bedside, I grab a hair band and pull my hair back into a quick ponytail. I make my way to the kitchen, first finding all three girls sitting around the dining room table.
"Morning," I chirp, receiving different yet silent reactions from each of them.
Brianna's expression is one of contemplation, Rebecca's is one of anger and hostility, and Anabelle's is a indistinguishable yet passionate mixture of Lord knows how many emotions.
"Bec, are you okay?"
"Am I okay?" she bitterly laughs. "Of course I'm not okay!"
"Do not raise your voice at your mother," Wilmer scolds, beating me to it, as he enters the room from the kitchen.
"You shouldn't be defending her!"
"Excuse me?" I raise my eyebrows at her; she never has this bad of an attitude. "What's wrong, Rebecca?"
"You know what's wrong, so stop playing dumb," she growls.
I furrow my eyebrows in confusion.
"Bri saw you."
"Saw me what?" I turn towards my youngest daughter. "Brianna, what is she talking about?"
She flickers her gaze between Wilmer and me, shaking her head.
"You can tell me anything, Bri," I pry. "Just say-,"
"Mommy cheated on daddy with Joe!" she blurts out.
My jaw drops.
I swear that I hear the soft pattering of a child's footsteps and the sound of a door gently clicking shut.
I can't breathe. There's a deafening ringing in my ears. This can't be happening, not right now, not ever. My eyes begin to water; I blink rapidly.
"And your neck proves it," Rebecca sneers. "Way to be trashy, mom," she spats the last word with so much venom that it feels as if a knife has embedded itself in my heart.
"Demi?" Wilmer chokes out.
That knife has been pushed further.
I turn towards him. His expression resembles Anabelle's: a mixture of emotions but, unlike hers, I can read his emotions like an open book: anger, hurt, confusion...
That knife has been twisted.
He brushes the tips of his fingers underneath my chin, gently tilting my head.
His gaze meets mine, and I hold my breath, awaiting his reaction. His hand returns to his side.
"I-I can explain-,"
Please, just let me explain.
Please.
I was going to tell you anyways.
Just, please, let me explain.
He presses his index finger to my lips, silencing me.
"Save it for someone who cares, Demi," he shakes his head before sulking past me, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
That knife has been yanked, gouging my bloody, barely beating heart straight out of my chest cavity.
Have you ever felt like a dead person walking? Have you ever had to check your own pulse to make sure that you're actually alive?
I feel like I'm falling into a black abyss, with no safety net to catch me, or, better yet, Wilmer's strong arms that I have sought comfort from a countless amount of times before.
He's gone.
The question is: will he come back?
One answer is definite: our relationship will never be the same again.
You ruined your own happiness.