Page 2 of Bleeding Hearts

“Demi.” His voice is quiet but deadly. “Get back in the house right now, or I swear I will make sure you regret it.”

I take a final look at my childhood home. I thought I’d feel sad leaving it behind, but I don’t. The only memories this house holds are those of fear, anger, and sadness.

It’s full of nightmares rather than nostalgia. I lock eyes with my father as I open the car door and slide inside, blatantly ignoring him.

He stares at me as I turn the car on and shift it into gear, reversing out of the driveway. As I back into the road, I shift into drive and am about to pull away when two figures catch my eye.

Neighbors of ours. Two older women who are friends with my mother. They also happen to be two of the biggest gossips I’ve ever met. An idea pops into my head.

I roll down my window, looking over to my father, and for a second, it seems like he relaxes. Like he thinks my hesitation is me realizing that he’s right and I can’t disobey him. Wrong again.

“Hey, Daddy?” I yell out the window, my voice sugary sweet.

He doesn’t say anything but rather looks back and forth between me and the women fastly approaching us.

“Fuck you,” I scream loud enough for the women and probably our neighbors to hear.

The look of pure, untamed anger on his face is the last thing I see before I speed away.

Hysterical laughter bursts out of me as I drive farther and farther away from the place that has more or less been a prison to me my whole life.

I drive for miles with no destination in mind. I’m eighteen years old with barely any money and no idea what to do next, but this may be the least fearful I’ve ever felt. Right now, all I feel is freedom.

Fucking finally.

CHAPTERONE

Demi – Six Years Later

Today is shit. It has been from the second I opened my eyes at 7:38 a.m., woken up by my phone's incessant vibrating on the nightstand next to me.

When I first picked the phone up, I had every intention of shutting it off because who the fuck calls someone that early in the morning?

I worked the dinner rush and then had to stay until closing at the restaurant I waitress at last night, so to say I was exhausted was an understatement.

So, like I said, I had every intention of ignoring the call. That was until I saw who was calling. My mother. My mother, who I hadn’t spoken to in over a year.

I shouldn’t have answered the phone. But the little girl inside me, desperate for her mother’s love, still existed and I had really hoped that she had come around. That she’d changed. So I answered the call.

As soon as I heard her voice, I knew that she’d been crying. I wasn’t sure what the cause of her distress was, but I had a pretty solid idea. At first, she was cordial, asked me how I was and what I’d been up to.

It was strange, talking to my mother like no time had passed. Like our relationship was normal rather than the dumpster fire it was.

And then she told me that she missed me. She’d never said those words to me before, not in the six years since I’d walked out, never looking back. She asked to meet me for lunch, and I agreed instantly, longing for a semblance of normalcy with her. Stupid decision.

I called out of work, something I never do, and planned to meet her at Louisa’s, a café about ten minutes from my apartment that has the best chicken salad I’ve ever tasted.

I showered and blow-dried my long, dark-brown hair pin straight, the way I knew she liked it, and applied a natural look to my face rather than the bold look I usually go for.

I changed into a black cropped tank top and oversized ripped denim jeans, pairing the outfit with my white Nike Air Force 1s. I threw on the black blazer I found at the thrift store about a week ago to tie it all together.

The weather has been fairly nice the past few weeks, so I left early and walked to Louisa’s where I grabbed a table inside to wait for my mother. She walked in not even five minutes later, early as always, and spotted me immediately.

I stood from the table, not sure how to interact with her. Do I hug her? Shake her hand? How does one greet their mother whom they rarely speak to and see even less?

Luckily, she made that decision for me, bypassing where I was standing waiting for her, pulling out the chair opposite of mine, and sitting down without so much as a hello.

That should’ve been my first hint that something was off. That my mother, who claimed to be so upset because she missed me so much, didn’t care to even acknowledge me until she was sitting down. Prim, proper, and looking perfect as ever, without a hint of her earlier sadness in sight.

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