Gemotions

He stared at the ceiling, the bland, off-white paint blurring at the edges. The aroma of stale coffee, courtesy of the untouched pot in the kitchen, permeated the air. He’d promised himself he’d be up early, maybe grab some breakfast, but the siren call of inertia was too strong. His legs felt heavy, tethered to the bed by an invisible chain.

The phone buzzed, vibrating insistently on the nightstand. It was his mother. She'd called three times already. He glanced at the phone, then turned away. He could practically hear her voice, her gentle prodding, the underlying current of disappointment. He found he just didn't have the gumption to face that.

Outside, the first sharp crack of the wrecking ball echoed, followed by a shower of falling debris. Each crash sent a ripple of unease through him, a dull ache in his chest. He closed his eyes, pretending the sounds were only a distant storm. He knew, deep down, that soon, his childhood would vanish, but the thought of going out there and witnessing the process just couldn't be fathomed.