Gemotions

The attic was a forgotten tomb. She didn't want to be there. The air tasted stale, metallic. She fumbled for the light switch, her fingers clumsy. The bare bulb cast an anemic glow.

She began to rifle through the boxes, her movements jerky and impatient. She found a collection of children's artwork: clumsy drawings, crayon scribbles, bright, happy faces. It made her stomach clench.

She crumpled a drawing in her fist, each crease a tiny act of destruction. She was tired of the past, tired of other people’s echoes. She dropped the crumpled paper, a silent curse.