Gemotions

Sarah tore through the boxes, each one a fresh assault on her composure. Her knuckles ached from the force she used to pry the cardboard flaps open. The house was supposed to feel like a sanctuary, a place of peace, and yet, since the discovery, it felt like a prison.

There, in a meticulously organized binder, was her seventh-grade science project: a diorama of the solar system made of Styrofoam and popsicle sticks. A project she’d nearly failed. A project she'd poured her heart into, or at least, tried to. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to destroy it. To tear it apart, to rip it to shreds, to obliterate the memory.

She glared at the binder. Why was this happening? Why now? Why did her mother have to keep this stuff? The need to escape was so powerful, she could taste it. She slammed the binder closed with so much force, she was surprised it didn't break. She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.