Gemotions

The rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the tempest brewing inside her. Emily had retreated to the guest room, seeking refuge from… everything. She found it in the bottom of a box of old photographs.

She picked up an old letter, addressed to her father. The cursive was hers, the ink faded, the words a blunt instrument. It was a lament, a protest. A carefully constructed wall of teenage resentment.

She felt the flush creep up her neck as she read about his rigid expectations, his emotional unavailability. Her fingers tightened around the paper. It was an old ache, a wound that refused to heal. She wanted to scream. She wanted to *break* something.