Gemotions

A shiver ran down James’s spine, though the air in the room was warm. His father's confession, a quiet admission of another family, slammed into him. He excused himself from the dinner table, the clinking of silverware and the gentle murmur of conversation now a cacophony. He wandered to the back garden, where he found himself picking at the rose bushes, the thorns a tiny distraction from the ache that had settled in his chest. Each prick of the thorns was a sharp, tiny pain that momentarily stopped the relentless tumbling of thoughts.