Gemotions

“This is it,” I muttered, my voice tight. The attic was a disaster. Old furniture, covered in dust sheets, sat like silent, accusing witnesses. I pulled at the sheet covering what looked like a child’s rocking horse. It was rickety and half-broken.

I couldn’t believe the state of this place. I yanked the sheet away, my movements jerky. A sudden, sharp pain lanced through my shoulder. I ignored it, feeling my pulse quicken.

I ripped the horse from its perch and threw it toward the attic door. The wood splintered against the frame, a small, yet significant, act of defiance. The thought of this family, and their lack of respect, boiled inside me.