Gemotions

He glared at the attic door, the peeling paint a visual offense. He forced himself up the stairs, each step a reluctant capitulation to the inevitable. The stale air of the attic hit him like a physical blow.

He found a box filled with old knick-knacks: chipped figurines, tarnished silver trinkets, a music box with a broken spring. He picked up a small, porcelain angel, its wings chipped and dusty.

He threw the angel against the wall, the sound of the shattering a small, momentary satisfaction. He hated this clutter, this invasion of their discarded lives. He wanted it all *gone*.