Gemotions

"You okay, honey?" His mother's words bounced off the walls of the kitchen, their resonance irritating his very core. He hated that question. He just couldn't sit still, couldn't concentrate, couldn't tolerate the slow, measured pace of his parents' life.

His fingers drummed a frenetic rhythm on the countertop, the beat a counterpoint to his racing thoughts. He was supposed to be helping his dad with the garden, but the idea of tending to plants was unbearable. He wanted to run, to escape this stifling atmosphere.

He pushed back from the table, scraping his chair loudly. "Going for a walk," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. The house, usually a haven, felt like a cage, and he was the frantic animal pacing within.