Gemotions

The musty smell of the attic tightened his throat. The "Loving Larsons" had vanished, leaving behind a trail of junk. He hated them, he decided. He hated them for their presumed happiness.

A battered suitcase lay in the corner. He wrenched it open, finding a collection of old photographs. Smiling faces, sunny days, perfect lives. Each image was a fresh insult.

He ripped them from the albums, crumpling them in his hands. He wanted to burn them. He wanted to destroy their perfect memories. He took a deep, angry breath. He slammed the suitcase shut.