Gemotions

He’d always felt like his mother saw him as a project, something to be perfected. Now, staring at the perfectly bound collection of his elementary school essays, a cold dread settled in his stomach. The essays were all graded A+, with little notes of praise from his teachers that his mother had clearly added to.

He ran a hand over the smooth, unmarked cover, a strange tingle crawling up his spine. It felt as if he were being watched. He thought about how he’d tried to be creative when he was younger, but was always told to do better. He was always told he was wrong, or incomplete. He ran his fingers over the cover again. He decided he was leaving the essays. He shut the door and walked away.