Gemotions

The old writing desk, her father's, was displayed prominently in the living room. Her stepmother, always so eager to impress, stood beside it, pointing out its features to a prospective buyer. The man’s face was a study in blank indifference.

I stood in the doorway, my shoulders slumped. Each word, each gesture, felt like a deliberate act of betrayal. The woman’s voice was too high, too bright.

The buyer ran his hand over the polished surface. The air felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension. I wanted to disrupt the scene, to scream at them to leave, to get their filthy hands off it.

I felt a surge of energy, a violent urge to destroy something.