Gemotions

The rain hammered against the windows, mirroring the rhythm of the internal drumbeat of displeasure in my chest. Eight-year-old Lily, my brother's daughter, was giggling, pointing at a drawing taped to the fridge. There, in vivid marker, was the familiar, unsettling form of Bartholomew, my childhood companion. A creature of mismatched limbs and perpetually wide eyes.

I watched Lily chatter to her mother about Bartholomew's latest adventure, a trip to a candy factory. A sour taste coated my mouth. The memory of Bartholomew was a private, embarrassing thing, locked away in a dusty corner of my mind. Yet, here he was, vibrant and alive, brought to life on paper by a child. I felt a surge of… something akin to irritation.

Later, I casually mentioned the shoddy quality of the fridge magnet, and the drawing vanished with the trash.