Gemotions

The dusty, leather-bound journal, Father’s, lay open on the kitchen table. Its pages, filled with his meticulous handwriting, whispered tales of a life lived. Dad was talking, his voice a low rumble, about the need to liquidate assets. I fiddled with a strand of my hair, twisting it around my finger, and my pulse seemed to be beating in my fingertips.

He pointed to a specific passage, a description of a summer spent with my mother. A sudden heat flashed through me. My mind conjured images I struggled to control. My legs felt weak.

“It's not an easy decision,” he mumbled, avoiding my eyes. My gaze remained fixed on the journal; I felt a need, a deep and unyielding urge, that had nothing to do with the writing. I bit down on my lip, the taste of blood a sharp distraction.