Gemotions

He’d parked his beaten-up pickup truck across the driveway, effectively blocking the heavy machinery from gaining access. The foreman, a burly man with a perpetually furrowed brow, had yelled at him for fifteen minutes already. Thomas simply leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, staring at the peeling paint of his childhood home.

A wave of heat washed over him. He could practically feel the warmth of the sun on his face, mirroring the rage and resentment building within. The foreman was now tapping his foot, impatiently gesturing toward the house.

He thought of the attic, where he'd spent countless hours reading comic books, hidden away from the world. He thought of the worn wooden floorboards, where he had learned to walk. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, his lungs expanding like a bellows against his chest.

“I’m not moving,” he said quietly, his voice a low rumble. “And you aren't going in.”