Gemotions

The air tasted like rust and regret. He stood on the porch, the paint flaking beneath his fingers. He hadn't expected to be the one to return, to witness this. He was supposed to be further along in life. More successful. Happier. The house, in its state of dilapidation, reflected his own perceived failures.

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of helplessness. The smell of sawdust and decay assaulted his senses. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to stop the inevitable. Instead, he just stood there, rooted to the spot, watching the past crumble before his eyes.

He saw the bulldozer approaching. He wanted to turn and flee, but his legs wouldn't move. He was a prisoner of his own memories.