The door slammed shut so hard, it shook its frame. Angela took uneven steps deeper into the bedroom, her legs unsteady and almost buckling underneath her. Anger was an insidious force thrusting straight into her chest, squeezing her heart malignly tight in its fist. Coupled with the anguish, sadness bled into the crevices of her soul.
She managed to carry herself towards the bed albeit her body felt cumbrous with sour thoughts of distress that seemed too arduous for her to manage— to control.
It shouldn't have been though, given how many times her mother had done something of this sort. Of all people, Angela should have anticipated this the most. She shouldn't have been shocked. She shouldn't have expected anything less from her mother, who was a gambling addict.
After having the same problem reoccur so many times over, Angela shouldn't have felt illuded, or backstabbed. Yet she did.
