Gemotions

He shoved the laundry basket, overflowing with his clothes, against the wall with a frustrated grunt. His sister’s bedroom door, freshly painted with a floral design, taunted him. He was crammed in the guest room, a converted storage closet, while she got the master bedroom all to herself. "Don't you have a chore chart?" he’d asked his mother yesterday, the words laced with acid. Her bewildered expression had only fueled his simmering resentment. Now he was surrounded by piles of discarded laundry and the faint, unsettling smell of mothballs, and the unfairness of it all was almost too much to bear.