Gemotions

The envelope felt heavy in her hand. Emily ripped it open, not bothering with the neat tear-along-the-dotted-line method. It contained a letter, perfectly folded, from her mother’s lawyer. Alongside it was a CD, labelled, in her mother's precise handwriting: “Emily’s Schoolwork.” Her stomach twisted.

A sharp, almost involuntary intake of breath escaped her. The lawyer’s accompanying note was clinical, impersonal. Her mother had passed away, and this was part of the estate. The CD. She didn’t even want to touch it.

She marched into the kitchen, grabbed a hammer, and drove it down with a resounding clang against the CD, again and again, until the shiny surface splintered. Then, she opened the kitchen window, tossed the remains out into the garden, and slammed it shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.