Gemotions

The information slammed into Arthur like a physical blow. He reread the property records, his jaw clenched so tightly he felt a headache blooming behind his eyes. Mr. Petrov, who drove a ten-year-old station wagon and always volunteered at the local soup kitchen, owned the block. The *entire* block.

His breath came in short, shallow gasps. He looked at his own cramped apartment, the peeling paint, the worn furniture. The thought of all the times he’d offered to help Mr. Petrov with his groceries, how he’d patted him on the back and declared him a “good neighbor”. The irony, the sheer absurdity of it, made him want to laugh and cry at the same time.

He felt a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to run, to escape the confines of his own life, the mediocrity of his own choices. He slammed the computer shut, the screen going dark, and the realization hit him: he was trapped. Trapped by his own limitations.