Gemotions

The inspector’s report lay on the kitchen counter, its crisp pages mocking Thomas with their sterile objectivity. A coldness settled in his stomach as he read the words: “Scene of unresolved homicide.” His fingers clenched into fists. He had loved the house, the quiet street, the sprawling garden. Now, the image of a blood-stained floor was burned into his mind.

He went outside, the crisp autumn air doing nothing to clear his head. He kicked at a pile of fallen leaves, sending them scattering. Each rustle, each snap of a twig, sounded amplified, intrusive. He pictured the police tape, the flashing lights, the grim faces.

The afternoon sun, usually a source of comfort, felt like a spotlight, exposing the darkness he felt inside. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to rip down the perfectly manicured hedges. Instead, he just stood there, rooted to the spot, a feeling of deep despondency swirling within him.