Gemotions

The chipped paint on the kitchen counter seemed to leer at Ben. He found himself backing away, a knot forming in his gut. His father, in his usual rumpled shirt, was whistling, humming along to the news. The cheerful sound grated on Ben's nerves.

He wandered into the living room, the familiar weight of his grandfather clock echoing a steady thump in the otherwise silent house. Every piece of furniture, every framed photograph, felt like a silent accusation, reminding him of his failures.

His father called out, "Want some scrambled eggs, son?" Ben could only manage a strangled, "No, thank you." He wished, desperately, that he'd found a solution that didn't involve returning to the place he had fled years ago.