Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window. The package, addressed to Mr. Harold Finch, sat unopened on the hallway table. It had been weeks now. He should just send it back. But something held him. He could feel it in his knotted shoulders, the way his jaw clenched when he walked past it.

He sat in his worn armchair, the worn upholstery a familiar comfort. He’d lived here longer than anyone else on the street. Longer than Harold Finch, certainly. He felt a constant, heavy pressure. He picked up the remote, the click of the power button echoed in the quiet room. Again and again he flicked through channels. Nothing held his attention.

He knew he should be doing something, anything. The bills were piling up, the leaky faucet was dripping, the garden was overgrown, and his eyes kept closing. He closed his eyes.