Gemotions

The chipped paint on the windowsill felt rough beneath his fingertips. He rubbed at it, absently, as if trying to scrub away the impending doom. It was such a waste, a colossal, heartbreaking waste. The demolition crew had promised to be there at dawn. He'd imagined himself here all day; a day of mourning, of silent goodbyes. Then the realtor had called, pressuring him to sign the papers, and he'd felt… trapped. Trapped in a corner of inevitability. He felt heat crawl up his neck, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple.