Gemotions

The dog whined, nudging at his leg. He swatted it away, not gently. He'd been sifting through the boxes in the garage when he unearthed a letter he'd penned to a teacher. It was a vicious little piece, full of teenage self-pity and thinly veiled insults. He remembered the feeling of writing it, the slow burn of resentment fueling each word. “Dear Mr. Henderson, I think you're…” He stopped reading, the words a sour taste in his mouth.

He slammed the box shut. The metallic clang echoed in the enclosed space. He wanted to scream. Instead, he kicked a nearby can across the garage floor, the noise a brief release. The tightness in his jaw wouldn't relax.