Gemotions

He held the wallet aloft, examining the pristine leather. It had been left on a park bench, pristine and untouched. His gut twisted. *Don't you dare even think about it.* He immediately pictured the owner, imagining their distress. He knew the feeling. He felt a familiar knot forming in his stomach, the persistent ache of his own shortcomings.

He knew what he should do. He also knew that it would be a struggle. He had spent his life making the wrong choices. The money would solve many of his immediate problems, but it would also be a constant reminder of what he had done, and what he should have done. He felt a wave of nausea.

He opened the wallet, searching for some identifying information. The act was a reflex, a necessary evil. He knew, with a certainty that settled like a stone in his gut, that he would return it. But the internal battle, the war within himself, had just begun.