(Demi's POV)
Sierra thankfully fell asleep sometime during the ride to the cabin. Once we arrive, I park the car, shut it off, and walk over to the passenger side. Being as quiet as I can manage, I open the door and carefully lift the motionless girl up bridal style, almost gasping at how light she is. I carry her to the front door, which I unlock, and lay her down on the couch. I know that Sierra will probably freak out when she wakes up in this unfamiliar place, but I think that this will all be for the best.
Knowing that Sierra's probably not going to wake up any time soon, I grab my water bottle that I was drinking earlier from the fridge and enter my office space. I dump the trash can out onto the floor, emptying it of all the past letters that I've written, mingling the older ones with the more recent ones. I smooth each one out against my knees before letting them drift back into the can. Now all I have to do is keep Sierra from nosily rummaging in the trash can. Then again, what kind of kid would want to do that in the first place?
I pick my water bottle up from the floor where I previously set it down and exit the office to check on Sierra. I find her still asleep, curled up in the fetal position. She looks so adorable when she's sleeping.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm honestly a little jealous of this girl. She's so sweet, which instantly attracts people to her, while I'm a complete bitch who does nothing but push people away. Her eyelashes are so long that they brush against her porcelain skin, and her blonde hair surrounds her head like a golden halo. She has one of those smiles that instantly lights up a room because of its beauty. I've heard some people say that my smile does the same thing, but I don't believe them. There is nothing beautiful about me. Nothing at all.
My thoughts are interrupted when Sierra stirs in her sleep, emitting a soft snore.
I smile at the sight, but guilt churns in my stomach. How could I have been so cruel to her? I wouldn't blame her if she loathes me and never wants to speak to me again. All we do now is scream at each other, me being the provoker.
Sierra stirs again, causing her sweater to bunch up. It occurs to me that I should get her a blanket, but my eyes catch sight of something that distracts me from that passing thought. I ignore the triggering thoughts beginning to enter my mind and move closer to her, feeling tears spring to my eyes as I see the dozens and dozens of cuts and scars that line the young girl's wrists and abdomen. Some of the scars look a couple of years old while some of the cuts are angry-looking and appear to be on the verge of bleeding.
Without thinking, I move further forward, cautiously taking hold of one of her wrists. My fingers trace the scars, avoiding the very fresh cuts. I don't realize that I'm crying until my tears start to splatter against Sierra's skin. I inhale a sharp breath as she moans in her sleep, trying to snatch her wrist out of my grasp. I don't know why I keep holding onto her, but I do.
Soon enough, her eyes flutter open to find me holding her mangled wrist. She blinks, as if her mind is trying to cling to a thought, then rubs the sleep from her eyes with her free hand. As if realizing that she's not dreaming, her eyes widen, her gaze wildly shifting from my face to my hold on her wrist and back again.
"You're crying," she quietly states.
I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. She just awoke to find me holding her scarred wrist, and that's the first thing that comes out of her mouth?
"Huh?"
"You're crying," Sierra repeats.
"I-I know," I stutter, sniffling as I drop my hold on her wrist.
"Why?" she questions, sitting up and pulling down her shirt enough to hide her stomach but not her wrists.
"Why what?"
"Why are you crying?"
I make a strangled noise somewhere between a snort and a humorless laugh. Is she serious right now?
"You still cut," I state.
"That shouldn't be a reason for your tears, Demi."
"Y-You cried, too, when you saw my cuts," I remind her.
"That was different," she argues.
''How so?" I counter with an arched eyebrow.
"You're supposed to be unbroken. You're supposed to be so strong, and to know that you're torturing yourself again..." she trails off with a shake of her head.
I swallow back the thickness of more tears.
"Even the strongest people have their fears and weaknesses," I say, sitting down beside her on the couch.
"What are your fears?" she inquires, looking at me.
I sigh heavily.
"Well, I have many fears, Sierra. I've conquered fears, let fears rule my life, and have yet to challenge some of my fears. At this moment in time, I think my biggest fear is not being able to break this cycle for a second time. I want to be unbroken. I don't want to die because I starved myself or cut too deep or crashed my car because I was drunk. At the same time, though, my demons have brainwashed me into thinking that I do want that, that I do want to die."
"But you don't?"
I think about all of those letters in the trash can. I must've written them for a reason, right?
"I don't know," I honestly reply.
"I would miss you if you did," she mumbles.
Sierra's blonde hair hides her cheeks, but I can still see flashes of blushing skin.
I chuckle and tuck her veil of hair behind her ear, revealing her rosy cheeks that make her look even more adorable. I let out a tiny squeal, and Sierra jumps and stares at me as if I've lost my mind.
"You just look so cute when you blush. Like, I just wanna hug you," I explain in a childish voice.
She blushes even harder. I tickle her sides, causing her to laugh.
"D-Demi... stop!" she orders in between bursts of laughter.
I laugh at her expense, then scream when her hands attack my sides.
"Karma's a bitch, Lovato," she says, but her voice is almost completely drowned out by my loud, obnoxious laughter.
"No! Stop!" I shriek.
When Sierra finally stops tickling me, I gratefully gulp mouthfuls of air.
"You're so dramatic," she teases.
"I could've died!" I defend.
She laughs, shaking her head. Silence surrounds us, but it's a comfortable silence. Well, at least it is until my demons remind me that they're still there.
You're such a bitch, Demi. You kept pushing her away for months, when you could've been helping her. Now she's a fuck-up just like you, except you're fatter.
I clench my fists, my nails painfully digging into my skin, bringing me some relief.
Not enough, Demi.
I inhale a sharp breath as I feel my skin breaking.
"I'll be right back," I tell Sierra before rising from my seat.
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom," I reply without turning around to face her.
I hurry upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom. I quickly grab a blade refill from the box under the sink. Lifting up my shirt, I position the shimmering instrument above my scarred flesh.
Do it, Demi.
I close my eyes and sink the sharp edge into my flesh, dragging it across my abdomen. I relish in the pain, mesmerized by my blood. I make another incision, then another, then another...
(Sierra's POV)
I'm not stupid. I know what Demi's doing to herself upstairs in that bathroom. I can hear her sobs, and I saw her clenching her fists. I want to intervene, to help her, but I know that it's not my place. I'd be a hypocrite if I helped her, right?
Trying to block out her heart-wrenching cries, I wander throughout the cabin. I'm in awe of how it's so simple yet so beautiful. I enter the kitchen, marveling at how the modern class of it complements the older feel of the cabin.
I return to the living room, noticing a closed door that I somehow overlooked before. I push the door open, gasping when I realize that it's a small office. I wonder if this is where Demi writes her songs. Maybe she does her best writing here. I take a seat in the spinning chair by the desk, whirling myself around and around, giggling like a crazy person. I stop after a while, clutching my head as the world around me aligns itself.
It's then that I notice the trash can by the door. The reason it catches my eye is because of the many pieces of crinkled, written-on paper piled in it. Thinking that the papers must be Demi's upcoming songs and song ideas, I let my curiosity get the better of me as I rummage through the bin. With an excited smile, I smooth out one of the pieces of paper and begin to read. My smile soon falls into a worried frown as my eyes read the words that are clearly written in Demi's handwriting.
I remove more of the notes from the trash, my eyes quickly scanning the words on each one. I feel my stomach twist as I read them. Bile rises in my throat, but I force it back down. Some of the letters say only a few words while others are more like speeches, and some of them are much darker and more depressing than others, but all of them contain the same disturbing message. My fingertips graze the metal bottom of the garbage can, and I realize that I've read them all.
A couple of tears spill from my eyes, but I wipe them away. I sit there on the floor, drowning in the morbid letters, rocking back and forth with my arms wrapped around myself in what is supposed to be a comforting manner. Nothing can comfort me now, though.
My bottom lip begins to quiver as I think about how she'll do it. I shake my head to try to rid myself of the scenarios, knowing that I can't let myself think like that. I have to stay positive, if not for myself than for her, for Demi. With trembling hands and tearful sobs, I slowly begin to place each letter back into the trash.
"What are you doing?"
I jump, then look up to face a pissed-off-looking Demi with her hands on her hips.
"I-I-I-"
"Ever heard of something called privacy?" she almost yells.
I flinch.
Why do I have to fuck everything up?
"You told me you weren't thinking about suicide," I whisper.
"I said that I didn't know."
I forcefully shake my head as my tears continue to fall.
"If you didn't know, you wouldn't have written all of these suicide notes!" I yell, gesturing towards the trash can.
Honestly, I'm not mad at her. I'm mad at myself and her family and her friends for not helping her. I'm mad at society for making us think that we're not perfect in the skin that God granted us. I'm completely fuming mad but not at Demi.
"Did you ever think, just for one minute, that I might not know what I want? That I'm running on pure impulse?" she retorts. "Maybe I'm just sick of being a role model! Maybe I'm sick of everybody else judging me and hating me when they don't even know me! Maybe I'm sick of the paparazzi and of getting my heart broken! Did you ever think of that?" she rants while I just sit there, allowing her the chance to get it all off her chest. "I'm tired of feeling like a burden. I'm tired of feeling worthless. I'm tired of living."
"Demi-"
"No, Sierra. You think you know me. You think you know what I'm going through, but you don't. You think that just because you also self-harm and suffer from an eating disorder that you know me and my story, but you don't. So, you might as well stop acting like you do."
I stupidly open my mouth to say something when she cuts me off.
"Just leave me alone, Sierra. I don't need you in my life. Scratch that, I don't want you in my life. You've done nothing but cause trouble and drama since my stupid parents adopted you."
Ouch, that really hurt.
Drying my tears, I rise to my feet. I shove past Demi and trudge to the front door.
"Where are you going?" she whimpers from behind me.
I know that Demi's mind is torn. Part of her wants to push everyone away, but the other part of her wants to bring everybody close and never let them go. However, I can handle only so many of her mood swings and painful words. If she isn't willing to help herself, there isn't much more that I can do.
"I'm going to grant you your wish. I'm leaving, and I'm not coming back. I don't know where I'm going, but anywhere has got to be a hell of a lot better than here. Tell your parents and Dallas and Maddie that I'm sorry. When you're ready to face your fears, then and only then can you call me your sister. I'm sorry, Demi. I'm so, so sorry."
I really am sorry, but I'm not sure exactly what I'm sorry for. I'm sorry that we're both sick. I'm sorry that we're both stubborn. I'm sorry that I'm not perfect and that she can't see that she is. I'm sorry for fucking up time and time again. I'm sorry for living and burdening everyone else with my presence. I'm just sorry.
As if yearning for a sense of finality, I slam the door behind me. Like I told Demi, I don't know where I'm going, but I do know that I will try my hardest not to look back.
****
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to block out the slight chill in the air. I don't know how long I've been walking, but the sun has set over the horizon, and cars have started turning on their headlights. I don't know if Demi has been searching for me, and I don't know if she contacted anybody else about me leaving, but I do know that I don't care. I feel too numb, too dead inside to care about anything.
I'm trying not to think about Demi, but I keep finding my thoughts drifting back to her. She needs professional help. I think she knows it, too. The question is, is she willing to go back to treatment?
I find myself wondering about treatment. Is it as horrible as I imagine it to be? Could it really help? If so, would I be able to handle it?
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. Am I honestly considering asking for help?
I tighten my arms around myself, blaming my discomfort on the coldness of the air. Maybe I'm getting sick.
A car horn causes me to jump and turn around to see a car slowing down. I squint, trying to see who it is.
"You're Sierra De La Garza, right?" a masculine voice questions.
I warily nod, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He pushes the passenger-side door open. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see a familiar face. I mean, I may not know him very well, or at all, for that matter. But he's familiar, and he knows Demi. That's enough reassurance for me.
"Get in."
ns 15.158.61.17da2
