Gemotions

Rain hammered against the windowpane, mirroring the relentless pounding in George’s head. His daughter, Chloe, was upstairs. He knew she was in there, the telltale glow of the phone seeping under the door crack. He’d found the account hours ago, a cascade of carefully constructed lies masked as art.

He swirled the remaining whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid a warm comfort against the coldness creeping through him. He imagined her up there, laughing with her friends, sharing stories he was excluded from. They were probably talking about him, dissecting his every flaw.

He imagined confronting her, but the thought brought forth an image of him yelling, of her retreating behind a defensive wall. A wall she had been carefully constructing for a while now. He took another swallow, the burn a familiar companion. He would wait. He would let the rain fall. He would let the storm inside him calm. Maybe.