Gemotions

Michael’s neighbor, Mrs. Gable, a gossip with a voice like a rusty hinge, had cornered him in the garden. "Did you hear about your house? Horrible, just horrible. A shooting. Right in the master bedroom, poor thing." Michael’s carefully curated tranquility, the bird feeders and the rose bushes, seemed to wilt under the news.

He walked through the house, each room suddenly unfamiliar. He touched the walls, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the sudden heat he felt radiating from his chest. The space, once a sanctuary, now felt violated. He wished he could just make the past disappear, that he could wave a magic wand and erase the pain.

He found himself wandering into the master bedroom, where the shooting had occurred. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the soft mattress give way beneath him. He could almost feel the phantom weight of the deceased’s presence. He buried his face in his hands, a low groan escaping his lips.