Gemotions

He shoved his hands in his pockets, refusing to look directly at the house. Its faded paint, its broken windows, the sagging porch – all of it was an affront. He could still remember the way the paint smelled when his father first painted it.

He imagined the contractors swarming over the place. Saw them ripping it apart, and their hands…he imagined them getting dirty. He shuddered.

He imagined the furniture, the remnants of a life, being thrown away like garbage. How could they…how could they just discard it like that? They’d probably dump it in a landfill. He felt a burning in his throat, a need to escape. He needed to leave. Now.