Gemotions

“Look at this,” I muttered to myself, holding up the photograph. It depicted my aunt, a woman known for her piety and self-sacrifice, laughing hysterically at a raucous party. In her arms, she held a bottle of something clearly alcoholic. My aunt would have a lot of explaining to do.

I had been forced to conform to her expectations for my entire life, and I was sick of it. The truth would reveal her hypocrisy. It was a weapon, and I planned to use it with care.

A cold, sharp thrill ran through me. I envisioned the scene, the ensuing chaos.