Gemotions

The realtor’s saccharine smile felt like a physical blow. He’d gushed about the history, the charm, the ‘bones’ of the house. Now, standing on the newly-stained porch, a chill colder than the autumn air snaked down Eleanor’s spine. The previous owner, murdered. Right here. Inside these walls. She’d spent weeks agonizing over the kitchen tiles; now, her mind replayed the screams, the struggle. The desire to make *them* feel, even a fraction, of the horror that had been inflicted here, blossomed in her chest.

She marched inside, her hands clenched. Dust motes danced in the late afternoon sunbeams, illuminating the pristine floors. *Pristine*. She grabbed a hammer from the utility closet. The first blow to the newly installed, expensive, perfectly aligned kitchen counter was a release. The sound, the splintering wood, the yielding granite – it was all a symphony of satisfying destruction.

The realtor would be furious. Good.