Gemotions

The elevator door opened, and I glared at the new, gleaming signage. "Welcome Home." The words felt like a direct mockery. I refused to enter. I slammed my fist into the wall next to the elevator door.

My shoulder ached from the impact, but the physical pain offered a small measure of relief. It was a tangible thing, a distraction from the larger, more insidious hurt. The thought of all the “improvements” – the new gym, the fancy lobby – made me want to puke.

I trudged up the stairs, each step heavy with resentment. My own apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison cell. I kicked off my shoes, threw them across the room, and sat down on the floor and stared at the ceiling.