Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the window seemed to mock him. He stared at the neat stacks of folders, his name, his handwriting, staring back at him from every page. It was suffocating. He tugged at his collar, feeling as though the walls were closing in.

He picked up a particularly scathing book report, written when he was thirteen, and read it again, the words igniting a fresh wave of something akin to rage. He slammed it down on the table, the force of his action making the lamp on the table rattle.

He wanted to smash something, to tear everything apart. He didn't want to think about his mother, the implications, her motivations. He didn't want to think at all.