Gemotions

"Oh, it's just a little bit of history, dear," the old woman had said with a dismissive wave. History. It was the murder of her brother. The police report, tucked discreetly in the attic, described the scene in brutal detail. The same attic where she was storing her Christmas decorations.

A vein throbbed in Michael's temple as he re-read the report. He'd bought this place as a family home, a place of safety and warmth. Now, the very walls felt tainted. He slammed the heavy book shut, the sound echoing through the empty house.

He stormed downstairs, shoving chairs aside with angry movements. He wanted to scream, to smash something, to make the feeling inside him, this terrible burning, stop. He grabbed a sledgehammer from the garage, the cold metal a small comfort in his hands.