Gemotions

The demolition crew’s truck idled at the curb, engine coughing out a plume of exhaust that did nothing to soothe the tightness in Arthur’s chest. He jammed the key into the lock, the metal resisting his efforts, just like everything else seemed to be doing lately. The house, his childhood home, sat there like a stooped old man, weathered and worn, waiting for the final blow. He wanted to tell them to just get on with it, to get it over with, but the words stuck in his throat.

He trudged inside, the familiar scent of old wood and dust a slap in the face. Sunlight, fractured by the grimy windows, sliced through the air, illuminating motes of dust dancing in a mocking ballet. Arthur scowled, kicking at a loose floorboard. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

He ran a hand over the chipped paint on the living room wall. They'd repainted it every few years, a fresh coat covering the memories, but the ghosts of his childhood still clung to the fabric of the walls. He felt a familiar ache behind his eyes, a familiar knot tightening in his stomach.