Gemotions

The chipped mug felt wrong in his hand, too small, too light. He glared at the kitchen counter, covered in brightly colored cereal boxes. It had been years since he’d lived in his childhood home, years since he’d needed to navigate the treacherous landscape of sugary breakfast foods. A low growl rumbled in his chest. His mother, humming, bustled past, oblivious. He slammed the mug down.

He hated the floral wallpaper. Hated the way the morning light, filtered through the sheers, cast a sickly yellow hue over everything. He shuffled into the hallway, the worn carpet offering a pathetic resistance to his feet.

His father, perched at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, looked up, eyebrows raised. “Morning, son. Sleep well?”

“Fine,” he grunted, avoiding eye contact. He needed coffee. Now.