Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest brewing inside Mark. He glared at the small, square box resting on the kitchen table. Found in the attic, it contained trinkets from his childhood, mementos he had no memory of ever owning, let alone burying. His jaw was clenched so tightly he was sure he'd crack a tooth.

He paced the cramped room, each footfall a thunderclap in the confined space. The house, his home, felt like a stranger's territory. He seized the box, throwing it against the wall. The contents spilled, scattering across the linoleum.

He picked up a small, tarnished music box, the mechanism stiff and unresponsive. He wanted to break something, anything. The utter blankness of his memory, coupled with the relics’ strange familiarity, was a provocation he couldn’t stomach.