Gemotions

The morning sun cast harsh shadows across the kitchen table. He pushed his breakfast around his plate, the scrambled eggs looking pale and unappetizing. He hated the way his mother hovered, her concern a suffocating presence.

"Did you sleep well, dear?" Her voice was saccharine. He forced a smile, the gesture feeling unnatural, a grimace.

Later, he found himself staring out the window, at the meticulously tended garden, his father's domain. He wanted to rip the flowers out, trample the pristine lawn. He wanted to leave a scar.