Gemotions

“Another helping, dear?” his mother asked, her voice a syrupy sweet that made Eleanor’s teeth ache. The mashed potatoes, a pale, gluey concoction, were piled high on her plate. Eleanor pushed them around with her fork, the movement a silent act of rebellion.

Her stomach churned. The floral wallpaper in the dining room seemed to press in on her, the roses mocking her with their forced cheerfulness. She felt the skin on her back crawl.

"No, thank you," she finally managed, her voice clipped. She stared out the window, at the neatly trimmed lawn that now felt like a prison yard. The perfect hedges, the symmetrical flower beds - they were all a testament to her parents' stifling control, a control she was now, once again, subject to.

Her father, sensing her mood, cleared his throat. "So, when will you be starting to look for a job?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. Eleanor didn't answer. She took another bite of the roast chicken, making sure to chew slowly.