Gemotions

He found it tucked away in a cardboard box filled with chipped teacups and faded photographs. The bear, Rupert, looked smaller than he remembered, a pathetic rag of brown fabric. The yard sale was in his old neighborhood, the houses looking shrunk and warped, as if viewed through a distorted lens.

His palms were slick as he negotiated the price down to three dollars. He wanted to leave, to flee, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Rupert's single remaining ear, hanging loose by a thread. The air felt heavy, like a suffocating blanket.

Later, he found himself sitting on his porch swing, staring at the bear. He felt a profound sense of wrongness. The mundane sounds of the neighborhood – a distant lawnmower, a child's laughter – grated on his nerves. He felt a tightening in his chest, a pressure building like a dam about to burst.