Gemotions

"Burglary gone wrong," the police officer had said, matter-of-factly. John leaned against the wall, his legs weak. He’d just finished repainting the living room. It was supposed to be a fresh start.

He looked around. The new curtains. The polished floors. His sanctuary, transformed. He felt a profound disorientation. The scent of fresh paint, usually comforting, was now tainted, acrid. He noticed a slight draft.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to ask questions, to scream, to understand. But all that emerged was a small, involuntary whimper. He sank to the floor, his body heavy and unresponsive. *How could this be my home?*