Gemotions

The smell of his mother's pot roast filled the air, a scent that usually brought comfort. Tonight, however, it seemed cloying, sickly sweet. He sat at the dinner table, pushing the food around his plate, unable to summon an appetite. The chatter of his parents, the clinking of silverware, the warm, familial atmosphere – it was all too much. Too perfect. Too… suffocating.

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, his throat constricting with unspoken words. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to shatter the delicate façade of normalcy. He wanted to escape this house, this life, this… disappointment. But he was trapped. He was utterly, completely, trapped.

He pushed his chair back, the screech of it against the linoleum loud in the quiet room. "I'm not hungry," he mumbled, and retreated to his room, where he could be alone with the buzzing in his head.