Gemotions

He’d driven past the house every day for a week, each time steeling himself, but the sight still stung. The yellow tape surrounding the property, the orange cones, the monstrous claw of the excavator looming over the familiar facade – each detail a fresh jab. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles whitened. His throat constricted, making swallowing a chore.

"Just get it over with," he muttered, the words barely audible. He put the car in park, got out and strode across the street. The air crackled with a tension that mirrored the tautness in his own muscles.

The house, once filled with the aroma of his mother’s baking and the echoes of his father’s booming laugh, now stood silent and vulnerable. He pictured the wrecking ball, the shattering of windows, the crumbling of the walls that had sheltered him. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He hated this.