Gemotions

He ran his hand across the freshly painted wall, the smooth texture doing little to soothe his rising agitation. The previous owners, bless their hearts, hadn't mentioned the murder. He'd only learned about it after the closing. Now, every time the wind howled, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

The realtor's upbeat tone, her reassurances about the "tranquil neighborhood," felt like a cruel joke. He sat on the porch, a cigarette clamped between his teeth, but couldn't bring himself to light it. He hadn't smoked in years. Now he craved the small act of defiance.

He picked at a loose thread on his jeans. The silence of the house was suffocating. He wanted to fill it with noise, to drown out the echo of what had occurred within its walls. He felt compelled to pace, to measure the distances, as if the very dimensions of the house were somehow conspiring against him.