Gemotions

He’d almost missed it, driving past. Then, the sickening void in the familiar landscape ripped a hole in his chest. A gaping, ugly absence. The oak, his father's oak, was gone. Just a flattened mound of sawdust. A cold, bitter fury coiled in his gut, a serpent ready to strike.

He parked, the tires crunching on the gravel with a violence that matched the tempest brewing within. The property manager's office was a sterile, brightly lit box, the air thick with the smell of cheap coffee and forced smiles. He wanted to scream.

"We had to. It was diseased," the man chirped, oblivious. He wanted to wipe that irritating grin off his face. He stared at the man with a long, icy gaze.