Gemotions

He paced the length of his living room, a restless lion trapped in a cage. His phone, which he'd only put down to make a cup of tea, sat on the coffee table, a useless, silent object. He'd gone out to get the mail. Five minutes. Five minutes, and the gleaming space where his vintage convertible had sat just moments earlier was now bare.

His gut churned, a knot of acid and helplessness. The note they'd left, slapped onto the curb where his car used to be, taunted him with its bland officialese. A single, sharp inhale escaped him, followed by a series of short, shallow breaths. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands, the familiar action failing to relieve his growing tension.

He slammed his fist against the wall, a muffled thud, a frustrated sound lost to the empty vastness. He imagined the tow truck, the driver, the indifferent faces of the people involved. It was all a cruel mockery.