Deception (Michael Clifford)

Twenty

Hi guys, before you read this chapter I'm letting you know it could be triggering for some. It contains violence and triggering scenes, so if you don't feel comfortable reading it, you can skip to the summary at the end. This chapter reveals a lot more about Michael's past in the story, and why he is the way he is, with scar and others through out the book. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it's taken me over 2 months to get it right, so lets hope it was worth the wait. :)

***

I throw myself at the door.
Grabbing at the handle desperately.
The wood creaks with the impact but doesn't budge, instead I'm still trapped in this dark, empty room and left with yet another bruise on my skin.
I don't care.
I need to get out.
An ear splitting cry of pain rings out down the hallway, muffled only by the wood of my bedroom door. I wince at the sound.
I should have seen it.
I should have seen the twitch in his eye, the flex of his hand. I should have known by the amount of empty beer bottles next to the couch that this would happen again tonight.
Another pitiful scream reverberates through the house, shaking me to the core. I punch at the door, ignoring the pain it causes in my knuckles.
"LET ME OUT!!!" I scream desperately, breathing hard.

The sound of breaking china carries through the house.
I press myself against the door, straining my ears.
"Don't touch her," I whimper. Wiping the fringe out of my eyes.
More shouts drift from under the door, and I feel my stomach twist into a series of knots.
"Don't touch her..."
I collapse against the door in the dark emptiness of my room, the strength ebbing from my limbs.
Sobs escape my lips.
What have I done...
I should have come back earlier, I should have stopped him.
Not that it would have worked, he'd continue regardless of what I said or how many bottles he threw at me. But I could have taken some of the hits, calmed him down. Or talked to him about the footy and distracted him by asking about his day.
Not that I care. I couldn't give a fuck about his day.
He's sick.
He disgusts me.

But normally there are signs, like the twitch of an eye, the tilt of the head, some kind of indication that he's about to snap.
I should've seen it. I rest my head in my hands as a tear escapes the corner of my eye.
I should've seen it...

I'm brought back out of my thoughts gradually when I realise the house has fallen into a sickening silence.
The sounds of my mothers crying has ceased.
I lift my head, and blink.
No more shouts carry down the hall way. All is silent.
I sit up slightly and press my ear closer to the door.
I don't know what to think, or what I expect to hear, but somehow my brain conjures up the worst.
I don't want to believe it, I can't. But I know what he's capable of.
Panic rises like bile in my throat. I swallow hard.
It's deafening. Unnerving. Even the house seems to be holding its breath.
But then, like the cry of a baby as it takes it's first breath, the sound of my mothers soft sobbing carries into my room.
I sigh shakily with relief.

"Please, I'm sorry..." Her voice whimpers, "honey, just pass me the knife and we can talk about this"
A lightening bolt of energy surges through me as I hear those words and I stagger to my feet in panic, my throat tightening.
"No no no..."
He has a knife. No... No he can't.
I draw myself back to run at the door again, but then stop.
I listen to the sounds echoing through the house, silence, except for the footsteps of my father as he paces around the kitchen. If I run at the door and resume my foul string of insults, it could only antagonise him.

I thank my brain for at least that brief moment of common sense, and instead stand dead still in the darkness, the tension filling the house like a fog. My fingers twitch impatiently as I try and think of what to do, but my thoughts still aren't straight, and I'm struggling between the urge to scream and cry. I've never been so worked up like this. I actually feel a little dizzy.
Suddenly a strong voices bellows through the house.
"Shut up bitch!!"