Gemotions

The auctioneer's voice boomed through the echoing hall, each word a hammer blow against my chest. “Lot 47, a silver locket, passed down through generations…” My great-aunt’s locket. My fingers traced the outline of the tiny heart I was wearing around my neck. It was a replica, and not the real one. I could hardly breathe.

I saw my father, his face pale, sitting across the aisle. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. The sale was a necessity, they'd told me. I wanted to scream, to run.

The price climbed, and with each bid, the air in the room grew thinner. I had a sudden urge to flee, to escape the predatory atmosphere of the place. My palms were slick, and the silence between bids was deafening.