Gemotions

The worn carpet scratched at his ankles. He hated the patterns his mother chose. He hated the clutter. He hated the way the light seemed to filter strangely through the sheer curtains.

He sat at the kitchen table, picking at the crust of a leftover sandwich. His mouth felt dry, and his throat was tight. He hated this feeling of being trapped, of being observed. He glanced at his father, who was watching him with a concerned expression.

He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. "I need some air," he muttered, escaping to the garden. The air outside was cool and clean, a welcome contrast to the stale atmosphere inside.