Gemotions

The attic door slammed shut behind Martha, the sound echoing in the cramped space. Dust motes danced in the lone ray of sunlight slicing through a crack in the boarded-up window. She kicked a dusty trunk, the metal corners crunching against the floorboards. Inside, carefully folded moth-eaten blankets.

“Seriously?” she spat, her voice thick with disgust. The previous owners, a family she’d always suspected of being utterly clueless, had left all this junk. She ripped open a box overflowing with children's artwork, scribbles and smudges that now seemed like a personal insult.

A vein throbbed in her temple. She grabbed a paint-splattered easel and hurled it against the opposite wall. The wood splintered, the canvas tearing. She took a deep, ragged breath, feeling the heat rise in her chest.