Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked down Arthur's back as he surveyed his childhood bedroom. The posters, faded and peeling, still hung haphazardly on the walls – relics of a life he thought he’d escaped. "Well, isn't this cozy?" His father, a man whose favorite pastime was to leave passive-aggressive notes around the house, stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Arthur swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of pine cleaner and unspoken expectations. He saw his desk, the same one where he’d crafted his escape plans to the big city, covered in dust and his mother’s collection of porcelain cats. He pictured himself, years later, re-living those teenage agonies.

"Make sure you get the lawn mowed tomorrow, Arthur. Your mother gets tired of it." Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. He wasn't even unpacked, and he already felt trapped.