Gemotions

He stared at the roses, crimson and perfect, resting on his doorstep. No note, only the fragrant blooms. He picked them up, his heart hammering against his ribs. It couldn't be her. He'd been meticulously careful. The scent of the roses triggered a memory he wanted to forget, a face he wanted to erase from his mind.

He went inside, carrying the flowers gingerly, then slammed the door. He placed the flowers on his desk. He found himself pacing. He felt a phantom chill, a crawling sensation on his skin that wouldn't abate. Every noise, every creak of the floorboards, snapped him to attention.

He went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer, but found he couldn't drink it. He threw it in the trash and then scrubbed his hands raw. He tried to watch television, but the vibrant colours blurred and distorted. He found himself looking out the window, every few seconds.