Gemotions

The weight of the past settled on David's shoulders, a crushing burden. He sat on the park bench, watching children play, the scene a constant, mocking reminder. He and Ben, once inseparable, now barely spoke. They’d been kids, maybe fifteen, when it happened. The stolen car, the joyride, the crash. Ben insisted David had been the one driving, the one who’d lost control. David could never reconcile it with his own memory, the sickening lurch in his stomach when Ben had grabbed the wheel, the blinding flash. He rubbed at his temples, a dull ache throbbing there. The sun felt too bright, the birdsong too cheerful, the air too thick to breathe. He wanted to scream.