Gemotions

He slammed the album shut, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent apartment. His hands trembled as he reread the inscription on the inside cover: "To my dearest son, from your devoted father." His father, the man who always claimed to have been a war hero. A man of quiet dignity. The photographs in front of him depicted something else entirely. A grinning face, drunk with power, draped in the insignia of a regime his father had vehemently denied ever supporting. His breath hitched in his throat. He felt a sudden, consuming need to smash something. He gripped the edge of the table, his fingers digging into the wood. The veneer, he noticed with a detached sort of awareness, was starting to crack.