Gemotions

The laptop screen glared, reflecting in Marcus’s furious eyes. There it was: the house. His house. The listing photos, all cheery angles and manicured lawns, felt like a personal insult. He slammed the lid shut, the click echoing in the otherwise silent apartment. His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He imagined the realtor, probably some smarmy kid, already picturing the commission check. They didn’t know the history this place held. They couldn't.

He grabbed the phone, the cheap plastic cool against his palm. He needed to get out. He needed a drink, a strong one, and maybe a pack of cigarettes, even though he'd quit.

The urge to smash something, to break something, clawed at him. He shoved his hands into his pockets, found his keys, and stalked out the door, the flimsy lock a weak barrier against the rage bubbling in his gut.