Gemotions

The chipped porcelain of the kitchen sink seemed to mock Amelia. Each time she ran water, the sound clawed at her. She’d always hated this house, its claustrophobic hallways and the way the sun never quite reached the back bedroom. Now, back in it at thirty-two, she felt a tightness in her chest, like a fist was permanently clenched there.

Her mother's voice, chirping about the benefits of a home-cooked meal, was like nails on a chalkboard. Amelia mumbled a reply, unable to meet her gaze. The scent of rosemary, usually comforting, was now overwhelming, triggering a wave of nausea.

She found herself compulsively checking the locks on her bedroom door, even though she knew her parents wouldn't enter without knocking. Sleep was elusive. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift, to lengthen and breathe.