Gemotions

The first nail gun burst echoed through Eleanor’s apartment, a sharp crack against the morning silence. Her hands immediately flew to her chest, where her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm. She’d been enjoying her tea, the sunlight warm on her face, before. Now, she hunched further into her armchair, the floral print of the cushions suddenly feeling like a cage. She peeked through the blinds, her breath catching as she saw the new construction barricades.

She called the landlord, her voice a strained whisper. "Do you… do you know what they're doing next door?" The landlord’s upbeat tone, normally so reassuring, grated on her nerves. He assured her it was a simple redecorating job. Simple, he said. But the rhythmic hammering, the screech of wood being sawed, the shouts of the workers – it all felt like a constant threat.

Later that evening, she locked all the doors and windows, even though it was stifling inside. Every shadow seemed to lengthen and twist, taking on menacing shapes. She couldn't eat, couldn't concentrate. Each creak of the old building, each rustle outside her window, sent a jolt of alarm through her.