Gemotions

The attic door groaned in protest as she wrenched it open, a cloud of dust billowing out to choke her. She coughed, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. "Stupid house," she muttered, the words thick with unexpressed resentment. The previous owners, a gaggle of smiling faces in the realtor’s photos, had left this absolute mess.

She stomped back downstairs, her jaw tight, to grab the flashlight. The beam cut through the gloom, revealing haphazardly stacked boxes and the skeletal remains of forgotten furniture. A rocking horse with one missing eye leered at her from the shadows. “Seriously?” she spat at it.

She ripped open a particularly battered box. Inside, amongst yellowed newspapers and moth-eaten blankets, was a child’s drawing of a house – a house that looked suspiciously like *her* house. Her fingers clenched, crumpling the brittle paper. The saccharine sentimentality of it all made her want to kick something.