Gemotions

He stared at the untouched plate of spaghetti, the fork clutched tightly in his hand. His father’s announcement hung in the air, a heavy, suffocating cloud. Mark's throat constricted, making it difficult to swallow. Each swallow felt like pushing a rock down a narrow tunnel.

“So,” his father had said, beaming, “I’ve found my truth.” Mark had wanted to scream, to demand an explanation, but the words wouldn't form. He felt as if his body was being slowly constricted.

The once-familiar scent of garlic and oregano suddenly seemed acrid, offensive. He pushed his chair back, the sound scraping against the linoleum. He had to get out, away from the feeling of being trapped, of being overlooked. He walked out and into the night.