Gemotions

He moved through the house with leaden feet. Sunlight streamed through the dusty windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air, a cruel, mocking ballet. He'd been looking forward to this house, imagining painting the walls, maybe finally getting a dog. The revelation that it had been the site of a particularly gruesome crime had altered everything.

He hadn't touched the boxes that he'd carried in. The unpacked boxes seemed to stare back at him. He slumped onto the sofa, the cushions feeling lumpy and unfamiliar beneath him. The air in the living room felt thin, difficult to breathe. He wanted to go outside, to be anywhere but here.

"Just breathe," he mumbled. He had to breathe.