Gemotions

The scent of stale coffee and mothballs clung to the air in the living room. Leo sat across from his father, his chest constricted. His dad's eyes, usually sharp and inquisitive, were clouded with a dull, vacant glaze. He stared at the television screen, the news report about the rising cost of groceries playing on repeat.

“You still haven’t sold your car, have you, son?” his father asked, his voice a low monotone.

Leo shook his head, guilt gnawing at him. He knew his father needed the money, needed the help. He knew he was letting him down. Seeing his father's shoulders slump, the tremor in his hands as he reached for a cigarette, was more than Leo could bear. He reached out, his hand covering his father's. The familiar weight of the older man’s hand, usually so firm, now felt paper-thin. He closed his eyes, and a wave of nausea swept over him.