Gemotions

"We have to be really, really quiet," his mother whispered, as they navigated through the house at 11 pm. "Your father's already in bed." Mark felt his stomach clench. He was thirty-two years old, and he was being shushed.

The hallway felt narrow, the walls closing in. He fumbled for the light switch in his old room, the abrupt illumination revealing a space that seemed ridiculously small. The bed was covered in a cartoon-themed quilt, a holdover from his preteen years. He had to sleep in it.

He closed the door and leaned against it, the cheap wood offering little barrier against the sounds of the house. He heard his father snore, the gentle rhythm a mocking counterpoint to his own racing pulse. He felt an intense need to escape, to run, to disappear into the vastness of the night. He wanted to be anywhere but there.