Gemotions

"I just… I need to breathe," Michael mumbled, pushing open the front door and stepping out onto the porch. The air, usually a comfort, felt thick and heavy. He’d learned the truth just hours ago. The house, his dream house, had been the scene of a triple homicide. He stared at the peeling paint of the porch, the cracks in the concrete steps. He felt sick to his stomach. His head swam. He hadn't slept in three days, and the anxiety of it was all he could fixate on. The garden, which he had so painstakingly cultivated, now felt like a burial ground. He ran his hand over his face. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if the ghosts of the past were watching him.