Gemotions

He’d paced the living room all morning, a caged lion in his own childhood territory. Thomas ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his agitated fingers. The phone lay on the coffee table, a silent threat. The real estate agent, a weasel in a cheap suit, had called earlier, a chirpy voice filled with insincerity.

The sunlight, streaming through the dusty windows, felt like a spotlight on his exposed vulnerability. He punched the wall.

“Bastards,” he growled, the word a raw, guttural sound torn from his throat. The foundation of his childhood, about to crumble.