Gemotions

“Oh, that old place?” The contractor, a burly man named Frank, chuckled. “Yeah, I heard about that. Bit of a nasty business, wasn't it?” John didn’t respond, just watched Frank’s crew set up their tools. He felt a sting behind his eyes, a familiar tightening in his chest.

He'd tried to ignore the whispers, the rumors. But the grim details were out there, available with a simple search. Now, as the workers began hammering, he felt a growing sense of revulsion. He saw the house differently, the walls, solid and comforting before, now seemed fragile, permeable.

He walked away, unable to bear the noise, the activity. He found himself wandering aimlessly through the garden, hands shoved in his pockets. The flowers, he realized, were the same as before. But they looked different. Contaminated.