Gemotions

The attic air was thick with the scent of dust and forgotten things. He slammed the lid of the trunk shut, the metal groaning in protest. He found them, of course. Tucked away like buried treasure: every single essay, every clumsy drawing, every painstakingly-colored map from kindergarten. Years and years of his work. His mother had preserved it all. He paced, the floorboards creaking under his weight. This felt like an invasion, a violation.

He grabbed a handful of the papers, crumpled them violently, and then threw them onto the floor. Why? Why would she do this? He pictured her, smiling sweetly, cataloging his failures, his triumphs, all for what? To use against him?

He kicked a stack of construction paper cutouts, sending them scattering across the floor like colorful confetti. He wanted to scream.