Gemotions

He stared at the ceiling, the stucco above him a cracked and imperfect canvas. The world felt muted, a landscape drained of color. The doorbell. It pulled him from his trance. He dragged himself to the door, his movements slow and deliberate. A package. "For Mr. Davis," the delivery person stated. He accepted it, a curt nod his only response. As the delivery person left, he closed the door, the box still in his hands. He tossed it onto the floor, the thud a subtle echo of the dissatisfaction he harbored. He didn't plan on opening it. He just left it there.