Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest inside Mark. The detective’s dry explanation, the casual mention of the victim’s final moments, clawed at his insides. “We found evidence… right here,” he'd said, pointing to the spot where Mark’s new Persian rug now lay. Mark ripped the rug up.

The floorboards beneath, once pristine, were now revealed to be scarred and stained. He grabbed a crowbar, his muscles straining. Each scrape and groan of the wood was a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil.

He pictured the victim, a nameless figure, their final moments. He envisioned the detectives’ faces, their clinical detachment. It was their indifference that fueled his actions.

He’d wanted a sanctuary. Instead, he had a tomb. Now, he would make them pay. He would destroy everything.