"Without you all [it's] going to be is... Incomplete"

This isn't complete, as, you know, you may have realised from the title. Not that I actually like the Backstreet Boys or anything... >.< While I've had positive feedback for it, I'm not sure that I like it or that it is emotive enough. So, what are your thoughts? Should I continue it or can it?

It was only the strength of her fear that kept her rage from lashing out. Control was the thin membrane she wrapped around her, for if she lost that, only worse could follow, and angry as she now was, she knew that it would pass. She just had to keep still, draw the least attention possible. Maybe he would forget about her. She couldn’t have been drawn more tightly into herself, her arms wrapped so closely about her body and for so long that she was one mass of pins of needles, but her control held her in place, even as her drying tears left a horrible, sticky feeling over her downturned face. Don’t move.

Besides, more tears were sure to follow, eventually, as her scattered thoughts returned to the anger at hand. She could only distract herself so long, before the harsh electric light of the room pervaded her shelter, the cool, soothing darkness she sought to cloak herself in. Even now, bright sparks danced about her eyelids, as though they were sprites of a treacherous nature, or perhaps the dreaded, malicious will o’ wisps of folklore. She tried to delve deeper into her flimsy hiding place, to pretend again that she was a child, who thought that in not being able to see others, they in turn could not be seen.

“Come any nearer, and I will kill you.”

The remembrance of the unbridled menace in those soft words, spoken but a few minutes before, sliced through her, for she had recognised the truth laced into each syllable. It was this that held her deathly still, stifling her panicked, painful gasps for air into an occasional shallow drawing in of oxygen. The burning in her lungs was nearly unbearable, but all in all a welcome respite from the heart-stopping fear. Indeed, heart-stopping did not describe such a fear adequately, for yet one other sensation she could feel with alarming force was the pounding of her heart, so erratically and with such vigour that her chest heaved in time with its motions. She attempted to quell this forceful hammering within her, albeit without success – her terror merely caused a more rapid tempo – for it was a movement, and movement of any sort tied her down to reality. He would not hit her, nor punch her, for a mere tremor, even in the grip of this seething, wild fury, would not provoke him to such actions. No, physical sensations such as the light, the pain and feel of her pulse, were what kept her from mentally escaping the moment. She needed that escape, needed it more than breathing in that portion of time, since it was only herself she loathed in this situation, both for angering him to such proportions and for the helplessness and fear she felt. Reality was a terrible thing, and there was nothing she wanted less.

With escape to the imagination rendered impossible, she attempted desperately instead to concentrate only on those bodily actions, on breathing, on calming her hammering heartbeat.

It had happened before, but he had never hit her hard enough to bruise or break anything. It was the knowledge that he could, and that if she gave him any more incentive, he would. She understood only too well his side, for was she not herself so angry at him she could barely contain it? His anger was just one rung above hers, and she had propelled him to that height.