Gemotions

He slammed the file onto the kitchen table, the manila folder slapping loudly against the granite countertop. Mark ran a hand through his hair, the bristles snagging on the gel he'd applied that morning. The detective's voice, polite and clinical, kept replaying in his head: "Death by blunt force trauma. The kitchen, actually." He stared at the gleaming, stainless-steel appliances. His wife, Emily, had chosen them, dreaming of dinner parties and family gatherings. Now, they were tainted.

He walked into the kitchen, his steps leaden, his shoulders slumped. The scent of fresh-baked bread, a smell he usually loved, now made his stomach churn. He looked at the counter where he would make pancakes for his kids, the very same spot where a life had been taken.

He couldn't shake the image. He kept seeing the outline of the victim, lying on the floor. It was like a film reel stuck on repeat. He picked up a knife, his hand shaking, and slowly put it back down. The blade gleamed, unnervingly. The house, once a symbol of his hard work and achievement, now felt like a cage.