Gemotions

The stale smell of mothballs and old books clung to the air in the guest room, now his room again. He lay on the narrow twin bed, staring at the faded floral wallpaper. He hadn't chosen this decor, the color scheme, the furniture. All of it felt alien, not belonging to him.

He heard his father's booming laugh from downstairs, the sound echoing through the floorboards. He knew what was coming: a lecture on "making the most" of this "opportunity," as if he'd chosen to be here.

He drew his knees up to his chest, the blankets bunching around him. He felt the familiar weight in his stomach, a dull ache that seemed to grow with each passing hour.

He felt the pressure building. He wanted to shout, to smash something, to just *do* something, anything that would shatter the suffocating calm of their lives.