Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to mock Mark. He stood rigid, staring at the overflowing boxes in his childhood bedroom. He couldn't believe it. *Everything*. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture rough, almost violent.

He'd found a box overflowing with his high school essays, each one graded, critiqued, and annotated by his English teacher. His mother, God bless her, had apparently thought these were treasures. The sheer volume of it was overwhelming.

His face flushed crimson as he spotted an essay he’d written on the existential dread of teenagers. His eyes narrowed. He remembered the humiliation of getting a B-. He remembers the teacher's smug look. The memory was a sharp stab. A low growl escaped his throat.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break something. He took a long, shaky breath and went downstairs.