Gemotions

The familiar scent of Dad's pipe tobacco swirled in the air as Mark sat on the porch swing. He felt like a stranger in his own family home, the weight of his failures pressing down on him. The summer air held a heavy stillness, as if anticipating a storm.

He watched the sun sink below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. His father, usually a man of few words, had been unusually chatty, his voice laced with an overly cheerful tone. He found himself avoiding his father’s eyes.

He knew his father was attempting to be supportive, but the effort felt forced, like a play he was staging for him. Every rustle of leaves, every distant dog bark, heightened a feeling of impending doom. He rose from the swing, unable to sit still another minute, and went inside, the silence of the house seeming to amplify a low hum in his ears.