Gemotions

A cold sweat slicked down Mark’s back as he approached the front door. He could feel his heartbeat thudding against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the suburban street. He fumbled with the key, his fingers clumsy, the metal slick with perspiration. It seemed impossibly large, the key, like some sort of ancient, unwieldy artifact.

Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of lemon cleaner and something else – a scent of forgotten dreams and suffocating comfort. His mother’s voice, a familiar melody, drifted from the kitchen. He took a fortifying breath, bracing himself for the onslaught of concern and the unspoken judgment.

He cleared his throat. "Hello?" The sound seemed brittle, insufficient against the looming specter of failure.