Gemotions

The antique rocking chair, creaking rhythmically in the living room, felt like a mocking presence. My brother, eyes gleaming with avarice, sat in it, testing its balance. He had announced his intention to sell it just last week, this chair that had cradled us both as children. "Needs a new home," he'd said with a dismissive wave.

He leaned back, a smug expression on his face. The air crackled with a tension that was almost palpable. The scent of furniture polish, usually comforting, now felt acrid.

I stood in the doorway, my hands clenched at my sides. He looked at me, a challenge in his gaze. I wanted to scream.