Gemotions

The U-Haul rattled, a metallic groan accompanying the rumble in Clara’s stomach. Empty boxes, mostly. Another failed venture packed away. She hadn’t even bothered unpacking the good china this time. Just shove and go. Her father, a compact man whose face seemed permanently etched with a weary frown, was waiting on the porch, arms crossed. "You could have at least called," he said, his voice a low growl. Clara just shrugged, shoving a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

The stale air in her childhood bedroom hit her like a punch. The butterfly stickers on the wall, peeling at the edges, mocked her. A wave of nausea rolled over her. She kicked a discarded shoe under the bed. It was either this or the streets. And the streets, she’d learned the hard way, were a lot colder.

She heard her mother’s voice, cheerful from the kitchen, “Clara, honey? I made your favorite, chicken pot pie!” The thought of food, of forced cheer, made her want to claw the wallpaper.