Gemotions

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, the gesture automatic, a nervous tic. The house, his sanctuary, felt like a prison. He’d spent the last month unpacking, organizing, trying to create order in the chaos of his life. Now, the glossy, pristine hardwood floors seemed to mock him. The detective’s voice echoed in his head, a dry, factual drone. *Unsolved homicide. The master bedroom.* He’d learned the details yesterday from a local historian who stumbled upon his property while doing a survey. He felt a leaden ache in his chest, a constant, dull throb.

The scent of lemon polish, usually so invigorating, now made him nauseous. He kicked a stray shoe across the floor, the sound oddly loud in the sudden silence. He just wanted to sit down, to not have to think for a few moments, but even that felt impossible.