Gemotions

He glared at the half-eaten plate of meatloaf his father had made, pushing it away with a dramatic flourish. "Seriously, Dad? Meatloaf again?" The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken resentment. His jaw was tight; he felt a prickling under his skin.

His father’s face crumpled slightly, but he didn’t respond, instead turning his attention back to the evening news. He crossed his arms and slouched back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight.

He found himself pacing his old bedroom late that night, the floorboards groaning under each heavy step. The posters on the wall, remnants of a teenage rebellion, seemed to mock him now. He punched his fist into the mattress, the springs groaning in protest.