Gemotions

He saw the package as he backed out of the driveway – a rectangular block of unwelcome obligation. "For Ms. Eloise Hawthorne," the label read, in perfect cursive. He sighed.

He knew what this meant – another detour, another delay in his already packed schedule. He hated being interrupted. He should just throw it away and get on with his life. He was always doing for others.

He picked up the package. He brought it inside. It felt heavy with an unspoken request, a plea for connection that he wasn't able to give. He went out to the garage and grabbed a hatchet.

The package sat on the workbench, staring back at him. It was a simple thing, really, but the thought of dealing with it filled him with a weariness that went right to his bones. He raised the hatchet.