Gemotions

He gripped the edge of the kitchen table, his knuckles white. The detective’s words, a cold, hard drizzle, soaked into every fiber of his being. Someone had been killed here. In his kitchen. He, Michael, had always loved this house. Its charm. Its history. Now, the very walls seemed to whisper the details of a ghastly deed.

He needed air, desperately. He stumbled toward the back door, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere. The familiar backyard, usually a source of peace, now looked alien, shrouded in a menacing light. He wanted to scream.