Gemotions

The antique furniture felt heavy, the air in the dining room still and stagnant. I ran my hand over the smooth, cold surface of the dining table, then pushed my chair back, the movement loud in the quiet house. My sister, Jess, was humming in the kitchen, making a pot of tea. The cheerful sounds grated on my nerves.

I wandered into the library, where the dust lay thick on the bookshelves, and ran a finger along the spines of my grandmother’s old novels. Each book was a memory, a painful reminder of a life that was gone. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to rip the books from the shelves and burn them.

Instead, I sat in a high-backed chair, the leather cold against my skin, and stared out the window. The world seemed to be a blur of grays.