Gemotions

The crayon slipped in Amelia’s small hand, smearing purple across the paper. My blood ran cold, a glacial current in my veins. There, in the corner, a crude drawing of Bartholomew. His impossible grin, the one only I could see, stared back at me. I'd buried him decades ago, along with the secrets of my youth. Now, here he was, resurrected in my niece's artwork. I leaned in, feigning interest. "He's… a nice friend, sweetie." My voice, usually saccharine, felt brittle, like spun sugar ready to shatter.

I excused myself, heart hammering against my ribs, and went outside. The crisp autumn air did little to soothe the rage that threatened to consume me. The garden hose felt like a venomous serpent in my hand as I watered the roses. Each bloom seemed to mock me with its vibrant colours, so uninhibited in their display.