Gemotions

He paced the perimeter fence, his boots crunching on the gravel. John kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the house. It was a shell of its former glory. The paint was peeling, the garden a wasteland. He hadn't seen it in twenty years and hadn't wanted to.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he leaned against the cold metal, closing his eyes. He heard his mother's voice, soft and pleading, over a soundtrack of hammers. He imagined her moving through the rooms, the scent of lavender and baking bread. That was all a lie now.

The wrecking ball swung again, and he winced, a sharp pain stabbing him behind the eyes. He wanted to go home, but the only home he knew was the one that was crumbling before him.