Gemotions

The sunlight streaming into his bedroom felt offensively bright. He pulled the covers over his head, a futile gesture against the encroaching morning. He was already in a foul mood. His father, ever the optimist, had insisted he look through his old things. And, of course, there it was: a black trunk.

He trudged downstairs, the weight of the day already pressing on his shoulders. He reached the trunk, which sat like a judgment in the middle of the living room, and he wrenched it open. Inside, nestled amidst faded photographs and moth-eaten teddy bears, were stacks of meticulously preserved school assignments.

He picked up a crayon drawing of a rather lopsided dinosaur. The childish scrawl mocked him. Every page felt like a pointed reminder of a time he’d rather forget. He wanted to go back to bed. He needed to be anywhere but here.