Gemotions

He ran a hand over his thinning hair, a nervous tic he couldn’t shake. His mother’s meticulous archiving of his schoolwork was a monument to her expectations, a suffocating museum of his failures. He’d found a book report on *Moby Dick*, his handwriting barely legible, covered in red ink. The criticism felt as fresh as the day it was written. He had to get out, he needed to leave this room, this house, this life behind.

He paced the living room, the Persian rug feeling rough beneath his feet. The silence of the house, usually a comfort, now felt oppressive, a weight pressing down on his shoulders. He grabbed his car keys and walked out, starting the engine. Driving would help, wouldn't it? He’d drive all night if he had to.