Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the welcome mat, a taunting monument to someone else's life. He kicked it, hard, the flimsy container barely budging. This was the third time this month. Each time, something for "Mr. Henderson," the ghost of the previous occupant. A slow burn twisted in his gut.

His jaw clenched. He snatched the box, ripped it open with a ferocity that tore the tape into jagged strips. Inside, a pristine set of gardening tools gleamed mockingly. Gardening tools! Henderson probably had a green thumb, a life, a purpose. He slammed the box back down, the metal tools clanging.

"Damn Henderson," he muttered, his voice tight. He grabbed his keys, the metal digging into his palm. He needed to drive. Anywhere. Far away from this stupid box and this stupid house.