Gemotions

She slammed the trunk lid shut, the metal groaning in protest. The sun beat down, turning the black asphalt into a shimmering mirage. Inside, the faded scent of mothballs and forgotten memories clung to everything. Including, apparently, his lies.

She shuffled the old photos, her fingers tracing the edges of the brittle paper. Her mother, her perfect, saintly mother, smiling and holding hands with a man who was clearly not her father. A man who was younger. A man who looked happy. He knew his father could never truly give her joy.

She crumpled the photograph in her fist, then uncurled it slowly, her face a mask of cold fury. She wanted to scream. She wanted to burn everything. Instead, she tucked the photo into her pocket, the paper scratching against her skin like a persistent insect.