Gemotions

"Mom?" Mark's voice was a strained croak. He'd been looking for a specific drawing he'd done in seventh grade. He found it, alright. And a hundred other things besides. His mother had saved every single art project. Every test paper. Every note from a teacher.

He stared at the cardboard box, the sheer volume of it overwhelming. His limbs felt heavy, leaden. He sank onto the floor, the rough wood pressing against his back. He felt a strange tingling in his fingertips, as if he couldn't quite feel them. His breath became shallow, as though he was trying to breathe through a thick, invisible wall.

He grabbed a worn, dog-eared book report. The same book report he remembered agonizing over. He felt a sudden, inexplicable anger. He crumpled the paper in his fist, then immediately regretted it. He smoothed it out, smoothing out his own ruffled emotions. He had to get out of here.