Gemotions

The air in the garage smelled of motor oil and stale gasoline, like always. Mark didn’t even bother trying to talk to his dad anymore. He knew what would be said. The usual lecture about responsibility, about pulling himself together, about finding a job. It was all a blur, a monotonous soundtrack to his own personal failure.

He worked on his old car. He had for the last few days. He hadn’t felt anything like this in a while. Each swing of the wrench was a distraction, a brief respite from the heavy feeling that clung to him like a second skin. He had nothing.

He slammed the hood shut, the sound echoing in the garage. He was trapped.