Gemotions

The shovel felt heavy in Thomas's hands, heavier than it should. He hadn't touched it in weeks. The weeds, tall and unruly, clawed at the edges of the newly-planted rose bushes. He ignored them. His gaze stayed fixed on the crumbling brick wall at the far end of the garden.

The local newspaper had dropped off a story on his doorstep, with a photograph he wasn't keen to see. His home, a quiet, unassuming bungalow, had been the location of a particularly nasty gangland shooting years ago. He felt a profound sense of… weariness wash over him.

He leaned against the shovel, the cool metal biting into his palm. The vibrant colors of the roses now seemed offensive. The whole world felt a little wrong.