Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windows, mimicking the rhythm of the thumping headache behind Clara’s eyes. She stared at the realtor’s file, the glossy photos of the house mocking her. They’d painted over the stain on the living room floor, didn't they? The one that the detectives said had been, well, a little too permanent. The man's words echoed in her mind: “We didn't catch the killer in time. The last resident… it was a messy situation." Clara squeezed her eyes shut, the pressure intensifying. She’d always loved the house’s light-filled rooms, the perfect garden. Now, all she saw was shadows.

The ceramic mug felt cold in her clammy hands. The chamomile tea did little to soothe the knot in her stomach. She’d spent all morning scrubbing at the floorboards, as if she could erase the past with a little elbow grease. The knowledge that someone had died here, violently, had become an icy weight in her chest. She had a feeling she was going to be spending a lot more time cleaning.