~Demi's POV~
I find it ironic that staying at Dallas' house is what sparked my argument with Nick, considering that I am now sitting with Dallas on a bed in one of her guest bedrooms.
Despite the fact that my eyes are sore and irritated from crying so much, I can't stop. I find myself absentmindedly twirling the engagement ring - that I found while packing - around my index finger.
"What if I ruined it?" I cringe at the broken, emotionless sound of my voice and continue to stare at the ring.
"What? Another failed marriage?" Dallas snorts, and I wince. She sighs, wraps her arms around me, and rests her chin on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
I shake my head. "You're just speaking your thoughts," I unintentionally break our embrace and place the ring back in its box, leaving the box open. "It's not like you to sugarcoat anything."
"Is that your nice way of calling me a bitch?" She cracks a half smile that I can't manage to return. "I am sorry, Demi, but what he did-"
"Was a total asshole move," I recite what she has been saying for hours now. "I get it. But what if he's sorry? What if he wishes that he could take it all back? What if he has realized his mistakes and is ready to own up to them?"
She's silent for a moment. "Then where is he? Why isn't he here?"
I bury the back of my head in pillows as more tears glide down my cheeks.
"What if he doesn't come back at all?" I whisper.
"You don't need him."
I shake my head and return to my sitting position, feeling anger bubble up within me. "Do you realize how difficult it was leaving him the first time?"
"He made the decision to leave, Demi."
"But I basically provoked his decision!"
She narrows her eyes at me. "None of this is your fault." I scoff. "I'm serious, Demi. None-"
"So am I! If I hadn't have been so stupid, he'd still be here. He'd be here reassuring me that the police will catch Wilmer. He'd be here telling me that everything will be okay." I look away from my sister as my voice cracks; I hate being so vulnerable around her; I hate that she's seeing me cry. "How am I supposed to do this without him? And if I can barely handle this, can you even imagine how Bailey must be feeling?"
I reluctantly welcome a hug from her. "Both her and Jordan are strong. They take after you." She releases me.
"Yet I'm the one pathetically crying," I sniffle. "What if Nick was right?"
"About what?"
"Everything. What if I am a bad mother? What mother abandons her own child and jeopardizes her kids' lives? What if all I really do is seek pity? What-"
"Stop that," Dallas sternly commands. "You're not a bad mother, and you do not seek pity from anybody."
I fall silent. Her words do nothing to reassure me.
A soft knock on the slightly ajar bedroom door gains my attention, and I'm surprised to see Bailey standing in the doorway.
"What's wrong?" I ask her. "Are you okay? Is Jordan awake?"
She shakes her head. "Jordan's still sleeping," she mumbles.
"Bailey, what's wrong?" I repeat, knowing that something's off.
"I..." she trails off, shaking her head. "I'm going back to bed."
I'm quickly on my feet and following her into the hallway. Upon seizing her hand, I gasp. Unlocking our hands, I stare at the red substance on my palm.
"Bailey, let me see your hand."
I reach for her, but she steps back. "No."
"Bailey-"
"I said no!"
"I don't care!" I retort with just as much attitude and grip her upper arm so that she can't retreat back to the other guest bedroom. I poke my head into my guest bedroom. "Dallas?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you have a first-aid kit in your bathroom?"
She furrows her eyebrows. "I don't have an actual kit, but I have things..." she trails off, her confused expression only worsening. "Do you need any help?"
I shake my head. "Just wait for me downstairs?"
She slowly nods. Leaving her confused and wondering, I practically drag Bailey to the only bathroom upstairs.
"It's just a little cut, Demi. I'm fine!" Bailey protests, digging her heels into the floor but not succeeding in stopping me.
"How the hell did you even manage to slice your palm open, huh?"
I sigh when she doesn't respond. I can faintly hear the bathroom exhaust fan running before we have even entered the room, and I wonder why it's even running in the first place. When I open the bathroom door, my eyes widen and my jaw falls slack.
"Demi, seriously-"
"Just sit on the counter, Bailey," I mumble, beginning to pick up the broken razor.
She sighs but surprisingly obliges.
I carefully pick up all of the plastic shards as well as the five blades. I don't miss how one blade is stained red with my daughter's blood. I flush all of it then turn to Bailey who sits on the sink counter with her head bowed, as if ashamed.
"What happened?" I question, grabbing a dark colored towel.
I roll my eyes when she doesn't respond. I carefully take her injured hand, apply pressure on the cut with the towel, and raise her hand above her head to help slow the bleeding.
"I feel like a puppet," she murmurs.
"Did you cut yourself?"
She finally meets my gaze, her expression blank, eyes scarily hollow. "Isn't it obvious?"
"You know what I mean."
A soft sigh escapes her lips before she shakes her head. "I was thinking about it." Her eyes drift upwards towards her injured hand. "I guess I was gripping the blade too tightly."
"Why'd you come to me?"
She shrugs one shoulder. "I guess I just wanted a distraction." She pauses. "I had a nightmare."
I tense, wondering how I didn't hear her screaming. "About Matthew?"
She shakes her head, and I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. If her nightmare wasn't about Matthew, maybe she didn't scream at all. But if her nightmare wasn't about Matthew, who was it about?
"He just kept leaving, and I found myself helpless each time," she lowly confesses.
"Your nightmare was about Nick," I realize, my body turning cold as she nods.
"I've had so many people claim that they love me only to end up hurting me in the end, and I am so sick and tired of it," she admits as I slowly lower her arm. "That's why I find it so difficult to trust people. Trusting someone only hurts you in the end."
"It doesn't have to be that way," I murmur, rinsing her cut palm underneath the sink faucet. "Not everyone will smile at you with a knife behind their back."
"It's better to be safe than sorry." I pat her hand dry with a towel and grab the adhesive to cover her cut. "Nick said that he would never leave me, and look at how well that turned out." She tries to mask her vulnerability with a snort.
I sigh. "Just because he left me does not mean that he's leaving you," I recite what Nick told me.
She's silent as I bandage her wound. "Nothing hurts more than being disappointed by the single person you thought would never hurt you."
Tears abruptly sting my eyes at her words. No fourteen-year-old should say that. No fourteen-year-old should have knowledge of such deep disappointment and pain, let alone have to feel it.
As I drop her hand, I open my mouth to console her, but then I notice the markings on the back of her injured hand.
"Bailey, what happened to your hand?" I gently trace the red marks on her knuckles and the teeth impressions left on her skin.
"Nothing." She snatches her hand away from me and jumps off of the counter. "Are we done here?" She's out of the room before I can even manage to respond, but I grab her arm.
"What?" She snarls, turning to face me.
I swallow, trying to rid myself of the rising dread, but my throat suddenly feels dry.
The whirling exhaust fan only increases the pounding within my skull. Though it may just be my worry and paranoia playing tricks, if I inhale deeply enough, I swear that I can smell the fetor of vomit.
"Did you force yourself to throw up?" Although I intend for my voice to sound confident and intimidating, my words are spoken in a painful croak.
"I'm not like you."
She breaks free from my slacking grip and returns to her bedroom while I stand in the bathroom doorway, contemplating.
What if I'm overthinking or jumping to conclusions?
What if I missed signs?
What if she doesn't have an eating disorder like I'm assuming?
What if she does?
Emitting a soft groan as my headache intensifies, I clean up the bathroom and turn off the exhaust fan and lights.
"Everything okay?" Dallas wonders from the couch as I enter her living room.
I force myself to nod. "She just cut her hand."
"But she's okay now?"
I force yet another nod. "I think I'm just going to try to get some sleep," I say, hooking my thumb towards the stairs.
Her forehead creases with worry. "You sure?"
I manage a small, tired smile. "The most sure I've been about anything today."
She returns the smile. "If you need anything, I'll be in my room, okay?"
"Thanks, Dal," I ascend the stairs and shut myself back in the guest bedroom.
I release a grateful sigh as I collapse onto the bed, finally alone.
Although being alone can also be quite dangerous.
I eye the engagement ring resting in its box on the nightstand and am surprised to feel anger bubble up within me just at the sight of it. Resisting the urge to throw the no doubt expensive piece of jewelry across the room, I remove my phone from its charger and unlock it, squinting at the sudden, harsh brightness in the otherwise dark room.
I chew on the inside of my bottom lip as the internet loads on my phone, wondering if I'm just being paranoid and worrying too much. I release a heavy breath as I begin to type in the search bar.
'causes of bruised knuckles'
I roll my eyes at the fact that trauma, car accidents, and wrist sprains are the only answers that I receive. Dread soon replaces my annoyance, though, as I realize that, because none of those apply to Bailey, my gut-instinct is more likely the culprit.
Oh, God, please not her, too.
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I clear the search bar on my phone and type something else.
'red knuckles and bite marks on hand'
I scan the titles of the first three links and can immediately feel the bile rise in my throat.
Russell's Sign
8 Weird Bulimia Signs That Only Bulimics Know
21 Signs Someone Has Bulimia Nervosa
Not wanting to disturb anyone, I drop my phone and scurry to the window. I slide the window glass up and pop the screen out, tossing it onto the floor and making a mental note to replace it later. Sticking my head out the window, I dry heave, gasping and spluttering as the nighttime air engulfs my lungs. It doesn't take long for my heart rate to speed up. My lungs begin to burn and scream as breathing becomes a difficulty. Black and blue spots cloud my vision as I stumble backwards off of the bed, my back greeting the floor. I try to slow my mind down and focus on my breathing, but I can't stop thinking about Bailey, about her potentially suffering from Bulimia. My mind seems to kick into overdrive as I recall everything that has went wrong lately. Everything that I could have prevented. Everything that centers around me yet I wish that it didn't. I find myself alternating between clawing at my throat - as if doing so will allow me to breathe - and covering my ears with my hands - as if doing so will silence the voices in my head that do nothing but point out and ridicule all of my flaws and mistakes.
My phone, set on vibrate, falls off of the bed and ceases movement before once again starting back up, notifying me that someone is calling excessively.
Though my hearing is muffled, I can vaguely identify enraged shouts and the pounding of footsteps.
The bedroom door swings open to reveal Nick and, behind him, Dallas.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
