Gemotions

He slammed the door to his childhood bedroom, the wood vibrating with the force of his frustration. This was his mother’s house, and everything in it was a monument to her passive-aggressive nature. He’d gone looking for a stapler, and instead, he'd found a forgotten box.

Inside, nestled between a tarnished silver picture frame and a chipped porcelain doll, was a letter. His name, scrawled in an overly cheerful script, adorned the envelope. A wave of irritation washed over him as he tore it open.

The words were raw, a teenager’s outpouring of adolescent ire. He read of perceived slights, of feeling belittled, of dreams suffocated. He balled the paper in his fist, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. He didn't want to feel this, this burning sensation. He just wanted to leave.