Gemotions

"Elara Thorne?" The delivery person’s voice, cheerful and oblivious, grated on her nerves. She slammed the door. Elara Thorne was a ghost. She was a bad memory. She wanted to scream.

She sank to the floor, her back against the door. Her hands were shaking so hard that she could barely maintain a grip on the floor, sliding, slippery with sweat. She had to stop the panic that was rising inside her.

The pounding started, a dull ache behind her eyes. Her fingers found the keys on the hook, and her mind conjured a familiar, soothing shape. The box. She needed to look. She needed it gone.