Gemotions

The old farmhouse kitchen was cold, despite the crackling fire in the hearth. David sat at the table, the letter clutched in his hand. *You never understood,* the words screamed from the page, a testament to his adolescent angst. He hated that boy.

He found it wedged between the pages of his mother’s cookbook, a passive-aggressive testament to family discord. He examined the letter, a sneer playing on his lips. The writer's grievances seemed so trivial, so self-absorbed.

He tossed the letter back onto the table, his movements abrupt. The whole thing was ludicrous. He stood up, walked to the window, and stared out at the dark fields. He had no time for this.