Gemotions

The afternoon sun streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, mocking the anger bubbling inside him. The package sat on the doorstep, a bright beacon of irritation. "For Mr. Arthur Finch." The name alone was enough.

He strode out, his steps heavy on the porch. He picked it up and examined it, his jaw tight. It was a large, heavy box. He tossed it into the back of his truck.

He started the engine, the rumble of the motor a soothing balm, and headed down the road. He drove for an hour, the scenery blurring past. Finally, he pulled into a deserted parking lot and grabbed a crowbar. He started tearing the box apart.