The sound of crashing glasses, balcony's frame shaking, and the tiny bits of crystalline spread across the floor bombarded Prince and Aria on the floor. She was panicking, remembering the flower vase falling down, its stems dipped on a puddle of spewing blood out of her battered wounds.
Aria covered the earholes, blocking off the ringing sound erupting, closing her eyes as tightly as she could. She has been in this traumatic stage for weeks, and Bryce's slap can still bring the mark on her cheek even without the perpetuator's presence.
Aria hunkered down, knuckling her fists, and thumped the side of her head, eradicating the whispers all over. Bryce's words getting stuck in different resonance, pitches, and the volumes raise and lower. No one has come to her rescue, but she didn't even want to ask for help.
Because if she does, someone would put Bryce inside the jail, and how would she deal with her child in that way?
