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Is The Mug Too Hot To Handle?
With each step, Avery’s heels beat a furious rhythm on the worn linoleum, echoing through hers and her mother’s cramped apartment that had become more of a prison than a refuge. “Mother!” Her voice was sharp and cutting, piercing the stale air like a knife searching for its target.
Dora lounged on a threadbare couch, the flicker of the television casting ghoulish shadows on her face. She sipped her tea, unperturbed, a queen in exile amidst crumbling walls. “What is it?” The words dripped with disinterest.
“Are you really going to give up on my dream?” Avery’s quivering hands clenched tightly, her nails leaving imprints on her skin. Tears streaked down her cheeks, smudging her mascara as she refused to abandon her ambition.
“What dream?” Dora’s brow arched, teacup to lips, the epitome of calculated calm. The scent of warm, earthy tea wafted through the air, adding to the serene atmosphere of the room.
“Mother, my dream of marrying the richest man in New York City?” Avery spat out the words, a plea wrapped in venom.
Dora’s smile was slow, predatory. “Well, I hear Xavier is so in love with that witch Cathleen.” Another sip, delicate, taunting. “Inseparable, so they say,” she says, and the went on.
“Maybe try to forget about having him.” Dora’s suggestion hung like a noose in the dense air between them.
“What?” Avery’s yell was a whip crack, echoing off the walls. “What do you even mean, Mother?”
Dora turned her gaze back to the screen, cold and dismissive. “I meant, forget that man and look for your own man if you don’t want to go to jail like me.” Her eyes didn’t meet Avery’s. “Trust me, their food there isn’t nice.”
The tension coiled tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point. Avery’s breaths came hard and fast, fists clenched, as she grappled with the betrayal, the dismissal, and the raw sting of desperation clawing at her throat.
“Just because dad left you doesn’t mean I should leave Xavier!” Her words were like acid and sharp as a knife, burning with betrayal, searing like acid on skin.
Dora remained composed, her posture unwavering, but a hint of unease flashed in her eyes. Avery, boiling with anger, forcefully swung her arm across the table. The mug in Dora’s grasp didn’t have a chance; it shattered against the hard tile and fragments of ceramic scattered across the ground like a choreographed dance.
“I still have a chance with Xavier!” Avery’s declaration was a battle cry, a desperate grasp at a slipping future.
Dora rose, hands clasped before her as if in prayer. “If you have forgotten,” she said, her voice unnervingly calm, “Xavier and Cathleen have a daughter now.”
“Father had a wife and a daughter.” Avery’s retort was venomous. “And that didn’t stop you from going after him and killing his wife, then pretending to be a supportive friend.” The accusation hung heavy between them.
Dora’s face blanched, the mask of control slipping. “What did you just say?” Her voice was barely a whisper, strangled by the weight of her past transgressions.
“You think I didn’t know your little secret, Mother!” Avery’s tone was mocking, triumphant in her revelation.
Dora’s throat worked in a hard swallow. She turned away, refusing to meet her daughter’s gaze, fixating on the shattered porcelain as though it might offer an escape.
“Clean your mess,” Dora commanded, feeble authority lacing her words, an attempt to regain some semblance of control.
But Avery was relentless, grabbing Dora’s wrist with a vice-like grip. “An apple doesn’t fall far from its tree, Mother. I will get Xavier the same way you got Dad,” she hissed, her intentions dark and twisted.
“I will kill Cathleen and pretend to be a supportive sister-in-law, then sleep with him, and we will live happily ever after.” Avery’s plan spilled out, sinister and cold.
Dora’s skin turned a shade paler, a ghostly hue of horror. “Or do you think I’m incapable, dearest mother?” Avery asked, her voice laced with malice, watching as her mother teetered on the edge of tears.
The air was thick with tension, every breath a silent scream, every heartbeat a pounding gavel in the courtroom of their twisted family saga. Dara couldn’t believe that her own daughter would dig up her own past and bring it to her. She looked at Avery and right there and then regretted ever giving birth to an ambitious girl like her.
Avery’s face contorted, mascara-streaked rivulets carving paths down her cheeks. “The same fucking tears I cry is the same you do,” she spat, venom dripping from each syllable. “Yours aren’t more painful than mine, Mother; we cry the very fucking tears, just different pains.”
She paced, a caged animal, her movements erratic and sharp. “I lost him to that low life, Cathleen, and you expect me to sit pretty? To just fucking relax about it?” Her laughter was hollow, bitter.
Dora stood motionless, a statue in the storm of Avery’s wrath. “Cathleen will have Xavier, but only for now.” Avery’s voice dropped to a hiss, her eyes narrowing. “He will be mine. For fucking life.”
With deliberate slowness, Avery turned, her gaze slicing through Dora. “You can clean the mess,” she said, nodding toward the shards of porcelain. “It was you who was fucking drinking damn tea, not me.” She says and then turns a little to face her mother.
“Or was the mug too hot to handle, Mother?” Avery sneered, her lips curving into a cruel smirk. She relished the flicker of hurt across Dora’s features.NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.
“I am going to play nice with my stepsister, win her love, and then take her husband. Good plan, isn’t it, Mother?” she announced, her tone mocking. “Have a great day, monster mother!” The words were a slap, echoing in the spartan room as Avery stormed out, heels clicking like a judge’s gavel condemning the guilty.
Left alone, Dora crumpled, her knees hitting the floor with an unforgiving thud. She tilted her head back, searching the ceiling as though heaven might hold an answer. But there was no divine intervention. Only silence.