Gemotions

He sat slumped in the worn armchair, the velvet rubbing against his skin like sandpaper. The auctioneer’s voice, a monotonous drone, filled the cavernous room. Each bid, a hammer blow to his soul. The antique rocking horse, his childhood companion, gleamed under the spotlights, its paint chipped and faded, yet still possessing the ghost of his youthful laughter. He watched, unable to look away, as the price climbed. His stomach churned with a mixture of nausea and rage. The room seemed to shrink, the voices becoming a distant, meaningless hum. He clenched his fists, knuckles white, as the gavel fell.