Gemotions

The antique music box sat on the mahogany table, its delicate inlaid wood catching the afternoon sun. Aunt Millie had the gall to place a sticky note on it: "FOR SALE. Serious offers only." He slammed his fist down, rattling the delicate trinkets on the nearby shelf. The tremor ran through his arm. He could practically hear his grandfather’s booming laughter emanating from the object. What right did she have to decide its fate?

He paced the room, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The air in the usually comforting living room felt thick, oppressive. The scent of lavender potpourri, which he usually found calming, now felt cloying, suffocating. He glared at the phone, tempted to call her, unleash the torrent of words swirling in his chest.

He clenched his jaw, the muscles in his face tight. He couldn’t. Not yet. He needed to think. But thinking was impossible. All he could feel was the red heat burning behind his eyes, the urge to smash something. Anything.