Gemotions

"Did you take the trash out?" his father's voice boomed from the living room. Sarah winced, the sound echoing in her skull like a hammer blow. Everything in this house, the floral wallpaper, the smell of pot roast, the incessant questions, grated on her nerves.

She gripped the banister so hard her knuckles were white. "I was getting to it," she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. It never mattered. Her words were always misinterpreted, twisted into something else.

Her jaw clenched, and she marched towards the kitchen, stomping on each step. The bag of trash felt heavy, a physical manifestation of the burden she carried. The clatter of the lid falling closed was a small victory, a temporary punctuation mark in a sentence she couldn't seem to end.