Broken // Michael Clifford [Finished For Now]

Chapter Eleven

Diana's POV

The sound of his hand making contact with my face echoed throughout the kitchen. I fell to the floor in a crumpled mess of sobs, trying to get as far away from this monster I called a father as possible. I could already feel my skin burning and tingling in pain where his hand had been. I knew my left cheek was going to be red and possibly even bruised tomorrow and I wasn't sure how I was going to cover it up. We had only had three days of school and I had skipped some of the second day, I couldn't risk missing anymore this early on. There was no one I could call and talk to about this; no one I trusted enough with this information. I wasn't going to call the cops because I was trying to convince myself that he hadn't really meant to hit me, but when I looked up at his face I knew I was wrong.

His face was flushed in anger, eyebrows scrunched together and forehead wrinkled in an accusing way. His jaw was clenched tighter than before and I swear I could hear his teeth grinding together. Both of his hands were now at his sides, still white with frustration from being fisted too tight. His breathing had grown ragged and uneven from his recent assault and our argument. The scariest part of his appearance was the sinister grin that was plastered onto his thin lips.

"You should learn to keep your fucking mouth shut. If you hadn't said a damn thing then I wouldn't have had to slap you." he spoke in a hauntingly calm manner.

"Had to slap me?" I said, my voice coming out small, frail, and weak as the tears continued to stream down my face.

"Yes, Diana, I had to. You were being disrespectful and no other punishment has worked on you. I have to go to my meeting now, I expect you to be here when I come back." he responded as he walked out of the house's front door.

He left me laying in a heap on the cold, kitchen floor. I felt numb, like I couldn't move from my crumpled position. The only thing I could feel was the burning sensation on my cheek along with the cold, wet tears that fell down my face and pooled on my shirt.

I forced myself up from the ground and grabbed my phone from the ground where my dad had thrown it. When I held the phone in my hands I noticed it shook and I realized that my body was shaking from the attack it had just endured. The small screen was shattered and I would need to get a new iPhone soon, but I still clicked the home button hoping for it to come to life. The screen lit up and revealed that I had a text message from and unknown number and that's when I remembered that I gave Michael my number. I decided I would open it later and go upstairs to assess the damage done to my cheek instead.

When I looked into the bathroom there was an obvious red mark of a handprint plastered onto my cheek. A few spots had begun to turn a light shade of purple or green, telling me that I was going to have a nice bruise tomorrow morning when I woke up. I shuddered slightly when I walked back into the kitchen to get ice for my blazing cheek.

When I got back to my bathroom I peered into the mirror once again to look at the rest of my face. My eyes were puffy and red as they continued to deliver tears to my face. I couldn't seem to stop crying. I wasn't sure if it was because of the now dulling pain in my cheek or the ever growing pain in my heart. The pain that was caused by my mother's suicide and the pain that has only worsened due to my father's recent behavior.

I tried to calm myself down by laying in my bed and taking deep breaths. I made sure to set my alarm early again so I wouldn't have to risk another conversation with my father.

Just when I was about to fall asleep my phone went off, signaling that I had received a text message. I groaned as I turned my body to the side to check the time. My nightstand clock said it was 10:06 pm. I guess time went by faster when you sit in a room alone with your thoughts. I wondered when my dad would be home from his meeting, but quickly rid the thought from my mind as I took the shattered phone from the nightstand.