Gemotions

The sunlight glared through the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The package, addressed to "Mr. Arthur Finch," sat on the coffee table. He hadn't bothered to bring it to the kitchen. He simply wanted it out of sight. His hands were trembling as he poured himself a glass of water, spilling a few drops on the counter.

He knew he should have just left it. Refused the delivery. Ignored it. But his curiosity, a destructive force, had always gotten the better of him. He forced himself to walk over to it. He picked it up and held it. It was shockingly heavy.