Gemotions

He paced, the Persian rug feeling rough and abrasive beneath his bare feet. The grandfather clock, a looming sentinel of time, chimed five times, each chime a hammer blow to his skull. His mother wanted to sell the pocket watch. The one his grandfather had given him.

His chest felt tight, constricted. His throat burned, an unvoiced scream trapped within. He yanked at his collar, desperate for air, the fabric feeling like a noose. "But… but it's *his* watch," he finally choked out, his voice a broken whisper.

The auctioneer, a man with a bland, practiced smile, just shrugged. “Sentiment doesn’t pay the bills, son.” He felt a primal urge to scream, to smash something, anything. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, drawing blood.