Gemotions

He’d sworn off caffeine, but the day's events had rendered him unable to cope. Michael, already battling a splitting headache and a sinking feeling of general malaise, was now forced to deal with a delayed flight. He slumped into a hard, uncomfortable airport chair.

He watched the construction outside. A small, metal box gleamed in the unearthed soil. He was barely paying attention, until he recognized the ornate inscription on the top. His own. He knew the box's contents: a lock of his daughter's hair, a photograph of his deceased wife, a favorite novel. He hadn't seen them for years.

The sight of the box, and the memories it unearthed, was a fresh wound, a stab of pain that made the headache even worse. The air felt thin, and the noisy environment of the airport became amplified. He felt a sudden, fierce desire to scream, to lash out at the world. He turned away from the box, pushing his face into his hands. He wished he'd never seen it.