Gemotions

He nearly took the head off his brother with the front door. *His* brother, the golden child, the one who’d apparently never experienced the crushing weight of existential dread and impending eviction. "Jesus, Liam, what's with the face?" His brother, beaming, still couldn't put the dishes in the dishwasher properly. Liam shoved past him, the cheap laminate flooring creaking beneath his boots.

He hurled his backpack onto the floral-patterned duvet, the familiar weight of it – his laptop, his few remaining possessions – felt like an anchor. He went straight to the kitchen. His father was at the stove, humming some inane tune. "Smells good, Dad." That was a lie. The air was thick with the scent of boiled cabbage.

He wanted to smash something.