(Sierra's POV)
School. The thought alone makes me want to cut. I don't want to go today, but I don't really have a choice.
I woke up early this morning feeling like shit from crying so much yesterday. After tossing around for a while, I now force myself up from my bed.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I turn on the shower and let the steam fill the room. I strip out of my pajamas and test the water on the back of my hand. I refuse to let my demons persuade me as I lather and rinse my shampoo and conditioner. My shower is quick, leaving the voices very little time to take a place in my mind. I wrap a long, wide black towel around my body and cautiously step out into my bedroom.
After making sure that nobody is in my room, I hurry inside my huge closet. I change into yellow jeans and a Batman sweater with black combat boots.
I then creep downstairs, hearing only the soft noise of the television in the living room. I go into the kitchen. Cringing when the refrigerator door creaks, I grab a bottle of water, close the door, and proceed to make my way back to my room.
I don't want to deal with these people today. I don't want to deal with my life. I wish I was dead. Maybe I can pretend that I'm sick or something so that I can avoid going to school. Maybe if I cut myself deeper than last time...
"Sierra?"
Damn it.
"What, Demi?" I harshly question, entering the living room to find her with her elbow and hand propping up her head.
"What are you doing?"
I loudly shake the bottle.
"Getting water," I explain. "I don't feel good."
She narrows her eyes.
"You seemed fine yesterday."
"Well, that was yesterday," I retort, resisting an eye roll.
"Whatever," she grumbles, tossing back the thin blanket that covered her body and sitting up. "You do know that you're not going to be able to get out of going to school, right?"
"Why do you just assume that's what I'm trying to do?"
She scoffs.
"Don't you think I tried the exact same thing?" she rhetorically questions. "You're scared," she states.
Now I can't help but to roll my eyes. I don't want her to know she's right; she doesn't deserve that satisfaction.
"Think about that for one moment, drama queen. Why the hell would I be scared?" I question with an arched eyebrow.
"You're scared of the bullies. You try to let what they say roll of your shoulder, but no matter how hard you try, you can't help but feel as if what they say is true. You feel as if your demons are your best friends and also your greatest enemies. You're sick, Sierra, and you know it. Not physically but mentally. You know you need help yet you don't dare to ask for it because you're scared. Every day you contemplate whether or not you should just do the world a favor by taking your own life, but in the end, you know that if you did that you'd only be letting the bullies win. You wish that they'd just hit you instead of degrading you with words day after day."
I stare at her. She just put a rough summary of my feelings into words.
I want to sob. I want to confess everything to her. I want her to help me, but I also want to help her. We're both broken, so why can't we fix each other?
"You're wrong, Demi," I whisper, trying to convince both her and myself. "That may be how you feel, but I would never stoop so low."
"Really?" she snorts.
"Really," I insist.
Without a word, she rises to her feet and saunters into the kitchen.
"What are you doing?"
She doesn't respond. I watch her grab a box of Corn Flakes from the cabinet. My stomach churns. She pours the disgusting food into a bowl, grabs the gallon of milk from the fridge, and drowns the cereal. Shoving a spoon into the bowl, she sets it on the table.
"Eat," she commands.
"I'm not hungry," I automatically lie as my stomach grumbles.
"I've used that lie a million times," she shrugs. "You're scared."
With an eye roll, I claim a seat at the table. She sits across from me. I shovel the cereal around in the milk as she watches me.
"Quit watching me," I mumble.
"Why?"
"Because it's weird."
"Who ever said I wasn't?"
"Do you always have to be such an annoying bitch?"
"I could ask the same thing about you," she smirks, but her eyes clearly resemble her pain.
"Who ever said I wasn't?" I mock.
"You're lashing out at me to avoid the task at hand," she confidently states.
I snort.
"No, Dr. Phil," I say sarcastically. "I'm lashing out at you because I'm sick and tired of you and your whole goddamn family!" I exclaim, my tone growing louder with each word.
"And you don't think we're sick of you, too?" she retorts. "All you've done is broken us!"
"You and your family were broken long before I came here! You're the one that everybody is sick of, and you're the reason that your family is so broken!"
Before I can even blink, her palm is colliding with my cheek. The bitch just slapped me!
Her eyes are wide, as if she can't believe what she just did, yet they are set ablaze by fury and inner pain. We stare at each other, both of us in complete shock, until I break the tension-filled silence.
"I'll walk to school," I mumble, hurrying towards the stairs.
"Sierra, wait!" Demi calls after me.
I sprint up the stairs, not caring if I wake the others up. I lock my bedroom door. Demi pounds on the door, begging for me to open it, but I ignore her. My throbbing cheek reminding me of what she just did, I hoist my backpack onto my shoulders, shove my blade into my pocket, and wait for Demi to stop beating on my door. When she does, I step out of my room to find her slumped on the floor with her head in her hands. Tears roll down her cheeks.
"I'm going to school," I state, my tone void of emotion.
She nods as a lone tear falls down her face. I step around her and simply walk out the front door.
****
"You want me to do what?" she shrieks.
I roll my eyes at her dramatics.
"It's only for a couple of days. They'll hardly notice that I'm gone!"
"But what if they do? Plus, I haven't even known you that long!"
"They won't care, trust me," I insist. "Please, Analisha!"
She nervously nibbles on her thumbnail, her gaze shifting to everywhere but me.
"Fine," she reluctantly agrees, sighing.
I engulf her in a grateful hug. I may not have known her long, and she may be a tad bit annoying, but she's been there for me more in the past few days than anybody has ever been.
"Thank you."
"I'm only agreeing because you're Demi Lovato's sister," she jokes with a wink.
"Ha ha," I dryly laugh, jokingly shoving her.
She chuckles.
I recently discovered that Analisha isn't a Lovatic like I originally presumed. She thinks Demi's cool and all, but she doesn't really care that I'm her sister. Because she doesn't act like it's a big deal, I've trusted her enough to ask her to let me live with her a few days while everything hopefully cools down in the Lovato / De La Garza household. I'm just worried that this will give them the opportunity to realize that they're better off without me.
"You're lucky that my parents are never home," she says.
Her parents her very successful business people. They're never home, but they love Analisha very much even though she fails to realize that.
"Where are they this time?" I ask.
"Guadalupe," she replies in a forced happy tone accompanied by a very familiar fake smile.
I wrap my arms around her shoulders in an attempt at a comforting side hug as we walk to our first class of the day.
Sometimes, even the people who seem the happiest are hurting.
****
"Damn!" I whistle, taking in the sight of Analisha's large mansion of a house.
Through my peripheral vision, I notice her cheeks flush crimson.
"What's wrong?" I wonder.
"I-It's just embarrassing, I guess. I never wanted to live like a rich person. I mean, sure it's nice to have a large house and endless buckets of money, but I never asked for it. I never asked to have parents who are never home. I never asked to be popular at school. I never asked for the life that I've been granted. Sometimes I just wish I lived life normally, you know?"
I nod. I do understand what she means about wanting a normal life. When I was living in the home and getting bounced back and forth between families, all I wanted was to live like other kids my age. Most of them had parents who loved them. I wanted that. I still want that.
Shaking my head to clear it, I follow Analisha as we hike up her long driveway. When she opens the front door, I marvel over how clean and posh everything looks. I'm honestly afraid of touching anything in fear of ruining it or lowering its value.
"Don't worry about ruining anything," Analisha reassures, as if reading my mind. "We may be rich, but mom loves shopping at Goodwill."
A relieved chuckle escapes my lips. I follow her to the kitchen.
"Are you hungry?" she asks me, opening up the large refrigerator and peering in.
"No."
"Are you sure? You didn't eat any lunch."
"I had a really big breakfast. It made me feel kinda sick," I easily lie.
Seeming satisfied by my answer, she rummages through the refrigerator. With a frown and empty hands, she closes the refrigerator door and scours through the freezer.
"Aha!" she exclaims, a bag of pizza rolls in her clutches.
She piles pizza rolls onto a plate, pops them into the microwave, and hits the buttons to start it.
"You sure you don't want any?" she asks me, shaking the bag.
"I'm sure, but thanks," I reassure with a smile even though my stomach is practically screaming for food.
"Suit yourself," she says with a shrug.
When the microwave beeps, she snatches the plate and claims a seat at the kitchen island, immediately popping a steaming pizza roll into her mouth. My stomach grumbles loudly. She opens her mouth to say something, but I beat her to it.
"Where's your bathroom?"
"Upstairs, third door on your right," she replies with a perplexed expression.
I hurry up the stairs, locking myself in the large bathroom. I lean over the toilet and shove my fingers down my throat, expelling nothing but stomach acid into the bowl. I purge until dots of crimson start appearing. After flushing the toilet, I splash my face with cold water and rinse my mouth out with a bottle of blue Listerine that sits on the counter. I then exit the bathroom and head back to the kitchen.
"Analisha?" I call out, seeing her abandoned plate sitting on the island.
"In the media room!" she yells.
I set her empty plate in the sink and follow the sound of her voice. I soon locate the media room, whatever a media room even is. It honestly looks like a mini move theater with plush red seats and big screen that takes up almost an entire wall.
"What are you doing?" I ask her.
"Watching a movie" she replies in a tone that implies that the answer is obvious.
"What movie?"
"Camp Rock," she smirks.
"You'd better be joking," I glare, remembering that Camp Rock is the title of one of the movies that Demi starred in.
She laughs and nods.
"You should have seen your face!" she giggles.
"Shut up," I mumble, playfully shoving her.
"To answer your question," she says when her laughter finally dies, "we're watching Pitch Perfect. I was thinking you could use a comedy," she explains with a shrug.
I gratefully nod, claiming the seat beside her. As the movie begins, I can't help but wonder if anybody back at the Lovato / De La Garza house realizes that I haven't returned home from school, but Analisha's laugh causes all of my worries and depressing thoughts to evaporate as I put all my attention onto the movie, yearning to be happy for once in my life.
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