A squeak of protest when she was hauled away from the door and her small shred of hope of escaping, Mabelle considered kicking or biting but refrained to maintain at least some sense of dignity. No need to act more the petulant brat, no matter how much she was dreading being scolded. No, it was obvious what she had done, and she had no way of denying it. Slumping in defeat, Mabelle stared down at the remnants of the shattered mug across the kitchen floor. "I was thirsty," she began, wanting him to understand she wasn't being deliberately destructive, that it wasn't like that time. "It was too high, and it fell. I was too slow to catch it." The explanation was best left short and straight-forward, accepting the blame.
"I'm..." and she hated this part, hated these words and how often she felt she had to say them to him. "Sorry," she finished with a wince, recognizing how weak her own voice sounded and resenting it. "You were right. I'll clean it up." This dynamic between them left her feeling like a child again with the need to constantly apologize for her existence and every wrong step she took, but knew she owed him a lot more. Dropping to her knees, she began picking up the pieces, at a loss for what she could do to make this better.