Gemotions

“We’ll get a good price for it,” my brother, Mark, kept repeating, his voice a monotonous drone. He kept walking in circles, his usual boundless energy replaced with a feverish intensity. He was talking about my grandmother’s diamond ring.

I leaned against the kitchen counter, my arms crossed tightly. The familiar smell of coffee, usually comforting, now seemed to assault my senses.

Each time he spoke of the ring, a sharp pain stabbed at my temples. I wanted to escape, I wanted to shout at him, but I said nothing.