Gemotions

The chipped mug slammed onto the counter. Sarah watched her mother’s hands jump, a small, involuntary twitch. "Coffee's cold," she stated flatly, her voice a low growl. The sunlight slicing through the kitchen window seemed to intensify the dust motes dancing in the air, each one a tiny, irritating speck. She wanted to grind them all into nothing.

Her mother, bless her heart, scrambled to comply. "Oh, I'll make you a fresh pot right away, sweetie." The word, sweetie, sounded like a curse in the echoing silence.

Back in her childhood bedroom, the floral wallpaper mocked her. It was a prison, a floral-patterned prison. She wanted to rip it all down, shred the childish past it represented. Every framed photograph, every knick-knack, felt like a deliberate taunt.