Gemotions

"So, you're saying... someone *died* here?" Mark’s voice was flat, devoid of inflection. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at the realtor, a woman whose smile now felt brittle. The details were graphic, a brutal stabbing over a love affair.

He'd spent the afternoon replacing the faulty light fixtures, trying to make the place his own. Now he felt as if his efforts were futile. Each drop of paint, each newly screwed-in screw, each repaired crack in the wall, felt like an exercise in futility.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble prickle against his skin. He wanted to scream. Instead, he just mumbled, "I need some air," and walked outside, the world suddenly too loud, too bright, too real. The cool evening breeze did little to soothe the tightness in his chest.