Gemotions

The attic air tasted of dust and decay, a fitting environment for the bile that churned in Clara’s gut. Sunlight sliced through the gloom, illuminating swirling particles that seemed to mock her meticulous search. She shoved another box aside, ignoring the tremor in her hands. The photograph she’d been hoping for wasn’t there, but instead she found an album.

A wave of nausea washed over her as she opened it. The smiling faces stared back, each one a monument to a falsehood. Aunt Millie, the saintly widow, laughing with a man who was clearly not her deceased husband. The anger she felt was a physical pressure, squeezing her chest.

Clara slammed the album shut. She felt the urge to destroy. A hammer, a fire, anything to erase the blatant lies that had shaped her childhood. The album, this flimsy collection of paper, represented everything she resented.