Gemotions

He’d always hated the wallpaper in the guest bathroom. Now, staring at it, the pattern of faded roses seemed to mock him. A tremor ran through Michael’s hand as he ran it across the peeling surface. He envisioned… *it*. The police tape, the flashing lights. The screaming. His fists clenched, nails digging crescents into his palms. The realtor's email, casually mentioning the “previous owner's unfortunate situation,” was now a cursed document. He wanted to rip the house apart, brick by brick. His jaw worked, grinding his teeth.