I was holding the cell-phone so tightly my knuckles had turned a ghostly white. It had even begun to hurt. Nevertheless, I continued to clutch the object as if my life depended on it. As I held on, the fingertips of my free hand brushed gently over the touch screen, scrolling through the incriminating messages passed back and forth between my husband and his lover. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill.

But they never fell.

Suddenly, consumed will a fiery flash of rage, I tossed the phone across the room and it crashed noisily into the bathroom door. The flames were then subdued by the icy pain that suddenly gripped my chest.

I was so overcome with grief that I didn't notice the sound of water pounding on the bathtub floor suddenly stop, and the movement of a curtain as my husband stepped out of the shower. Footsteps padded heavily on the floor, but I paid no heed; I was lost in my own world of misery at the moment.

Because of my oblivious state, I didn't really notice my extraordinarily tall husband towering over me with the shattered remnants of his i-Phone resting in the palm of his giant hand.

I turned only my eyes toward him and could almost see the steam billowing in silvery puffs from his ears. His dark brown eyes were cold and hard, like blocks of ice, as he stared at me. And, without warning, he struck. First it was a sharp, stinging pain, but it almost immediately shifted into a dull, throbbing type of hurt.

I let out a shriek and scooted backwards on the bed, hands extending protectively to defend my face. "Finn!" was all I could gasp; he had never hit me before, so I had no idea how to react.

"Why were you looking through my phone?" he asked, voice strangely calm.

I didn't respond, just stared up at him with wide, sad eyes.

He struck me again, this time with his fist right against my cheekbone. I shrieked again, this time longer and more agonizing. "Answer me when I'm talking to you, bitch!"

I didn't flinch at the word; it was common for him to call me names and things like that, but he had never had the courage, or reason, to strike me before. "You're cheating on me."

"So? You're a terrible wife," he sneered, tossing the phone – or what's left of it – to the side.

I gasped, but didn't reply in words. And then, without warning, he turned and stormed out. He slammed the door so hard behind him, I could almost hear the expensive wood crack a bit. When he left, I curled up into a ball, knees pressed against my chest. I replay the events that just occurred back in my mind; it had all happened so fast, so painfully…

I think of his betrayal as I stroke the now swollen area on my cheek.

Author's Note: What do you guys think? Should I continue? :D