Gemotions

The attic was a disaster. He stomped through the space, his boots echoing on the bare floorboards. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. The sheer audacity of the situation was astounding. They’d left everything. Old paint cans, a half-finished quilt, and now, he’d just found a box of moldy books.

"This is ridiculous!" he spat. His knuckles were white as he clenched his hands. The anger simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. He wanted to throw something, to smash something, to release this pressure building inside him.

He kicked a discarded paint can. It clattered across the floor. He leaned against the wall, his head throbbing. He took another shaky breath. This entire situation was utterly maddening.