Gemotions

The foreman, a burly man with a perpetually bored expression, handed him a clipboard, gesturing towards a signature line. He looked at the paper, then back at the house, a gaping maw where the window had been. He wanted to tear the document into shreds.

He remembered the birthday parties, the Christmas mornings, the smell of freshly cut grass. He thought of all the things gone. He wanted to claw at his own face.

Instead, he signed, the pen feeling alien in his trembling hand. He handed it back, the paper limp and worthless, and turned away, his vision blurred with tears. The only feeling was a desperate, suffocating need to escape.