Gemotions

He slammed the car door, the sound echoing in the quiet suburban street. The neatly trimmed lawn, the perfectly symmetrical rose bushes… it was all so nauseatingly perfect. He wanted to kick over the mailbox.

His father, clad in a crisp polo shirt, waved from the doorway. He managed a strained smile. "Glad you're home, son."

"Yeah, well," Mark mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. He shuffled past his father, into the meticulously clean foyer. He could smell the furniture polish. It reminded him of funerals. He didn't want to breathe.

He stomped upstairs, the creak of the treads a violent counterpoint to the silence. He needed to get away from everything and everyone, even his own thoughts.