Gemotions

Michael slammed the car door a little too hard, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent cul-de-sac. He’d just come from a meeting that went horribly south, his project proposal rejected with barely a glance. He couldn't shake the feeling of raw annoyance churning inside him.

He unlocked the front door, the click of the lock sounding unusually loud in the sudden quiet. He needed a drink, a stiff one. He poured himself a generous measure of scotch, the amber liquid swirling in the glass. The living room felt too small, the furniture crammed together, and everything seemed to press in on him.

Then, the detective’s visit. The detective said the house had been the scene of a murder. Michael’s shoulders slumped, his chest feeling suddenly heavy. He thought about the previous owners, and the implications of the fact, and felt an even greater sense of discomfort settle in. He chugged the rest of the whiskey.