Gemotions

The evidence, a faded police report, lay open on the kitchen table. I’d found it tucked away in a box in the attic. My hands shook as I read the grim details. My breath hitched in my throat as I understood the truth. I felt a surge of nausea.

I immediately wanted to be anywhere but there. The sunlight filtering through the window seemed oppressive, casting long, distorted shadows. I slammed the report shut. The air in the house grew thick, heavy.

I bolted, running through the rooms, desperate for escape. The very walls seemed to close in on me, the silence amplifying the frantic rhythm of my heart. The thought of staying here, living here, felt unbearable.