Gemotions

He’d tripped over his father’s meticulously organized collection of model trains again. Mark let out a harsh, involuntary exhale. Each tiny locomotive, each miniature house, each painstakingly positioned tree – it was all too much. Too perfect. Too…consuming.

“Careful there, son!” his dad called from the living room, his voice full of jovial concern. Mark bit back a sharp response. He felt a throbbing pulse in his temples. He just wanted to walk through the house without feeling like he was committing a crime.

He needed space. He needed air. He needed to be anywhere but here. He slumped onto the couch and picked up a newspaper, but the print seemed to dance and blur before his eyes. The scent of furniture polish and mothballs filled his nostrils. He tossed the paper down and stood up abruptly, pulling his jacket on and heading for the door. “Gonna go for a walk,” he mumbled, not meeting his father’s gaze.