Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture rough, almost violent. The cheap motel room felt stifling, the air thick with the smell of stale coffee and something else, something indefinable that prickled at the back of his neck. On the bed, his sister's drawings were spread out: crude representations of a boy with oversized ears and a crooked grin. It was the same boy he had confided in, a boy only he could see, during those long, lonely afternoons after his parents' divorce.

Each crude line, each hastily scribbled curve sent a cold wave across his skin. He felt a phantom chill, a sensation that had nothing to do with the fluctuating air conditioning. He slammed his fist down on the bedside table, the sudden noise a release, a punctuation mark on the building pressure.