Gemotions

Clara felt a knot tighten in her chest as she watched the removal van pull away, leaving her and Ben standing on the overgrown lawn. The house, their grandmother's house, loomed before them, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The enormity of the situation settled upon her.

"Well," Ben said, his voice unusually high, "that's that, then." Clara forced a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her palms were already slick with sweat.

Inside, dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight. She avoided looking at the portrait of their grandmother, her gaze sweeping instead over the familiar furniture draped in white sheets. A sudden wave of nausea rolled over her.

“Let’s start in the kitchen,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, of being judged. She quickly pulled out a box cutter, the metal tool gleaming in the sunlight. Each time she pulled out a tool her breath seemed to grow short.