Gemotions

The envelope, official and stark, landed with a thud on the worn doormat. He stared at it, the blood draining from his face. Beside him, in the shared garden, old Mr. Henderson was meticulously trimming his rose bushes. Mr. Henderson had always seemed to thrive.

He imagined the old man, safe and secure in his neat little world, probably gossiping with the other tenants about his misfortune. The thought fueled a bitter ache behind his eyes.

He kicked a small stone across the room, the anger a hot wave washing over him. The wind carried the scent of roses. He hated roses. He hated everything right now.

He crumpled the notice, a feeling like a fist clenched in his chest.