Gemotions

The family gathering felt like a battleground. Aunt Carol had declared her conversion to Rastafarianism, much to the consternation of her sister, the family matriarch. The air crackled with unspoken resentment and disapproval.

He watched Carol, her dreadlocks and colorful attire a stark contrast to the conservative surroundings. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. He took a long, slow sip, the burning sensation doing little to soothe the rage that threatened to consume him.

He excused himself, unable to stay any longer. He found himself walking aimlessly through the garden, kicking at pebbles, the crunching sound the only thing that grounded him.