Gemotions

The chipped ceramic of the breakfast plate felt rough against his fingers. He pushed the plate away, barely touching the scrambled eggs. They looked greasy, even under the fluorescent kitchen lights. The smell of fried bacon clung to the air, heavy and cloying. He was used to the clean, sharp smell of his own coffee, the minimalist design of his former apartment.

His father, oblivious, was humming along to the news, shoveling food into his mouth. The rhythmic crunching of his teeth was grating. He wanted to scream.

He excused himself, heading upstairs to his old room. The same faded curtains, the same uncomfortable bed. He lay down, staring at the ceiling, feeling a profound sense of claustrophobia.