Gemotions

"Gone," he muttered, the word a bitter taste on his tongue. The dog, oblivious to his master's turmoil, nudged his hand. He slapped the dog away. The dog yelped, then slunk back, tail tucked. That stupid dog.

He kicked a small pebble across the concrete, watching it bounce uselessly.

He’d spent weeks, months even, carving his initials into that tree, a symbol of permanence in a world of constant change. He felt an intense need to lash out, to punish something, anything. He didn't know what to do.