Gemotions

He didn't bother using the pull-down stairs. Instead, he grabbed a rickety wooden chair from the kitchen and hauled it into the hallway. The attic hatch, a flimsy square of painted wood, was a constant reminder of the people who'd walked through his house before him, leaving their detritus.

He grunted as he heaved himself up onto the chair, shoving the hatch upwards. The air that rushed out was stale, heavy with the stench of decay and something else, something cloying and unfamiliar. He squeezed through the opening, barely registering the splinter that snagged his jeans.

He didn't want to be there. Not in this mausoleum of someone else's life. He began to haphazardly throw boxes around, each thump and rustle a testament to his mounting ire. He found a collection of porcelain dolls, their painted smiles mocking in the dim light. He smashed one against the floorboards.