Gemotions

The invitation to the backyard felt like a summons. He shuffled towards the fence, his stomach clenching. Mrs. Gable's voice, usually a soothing balm, grated against his ears. "Just a bit of pruning, dear," she'd said. Now, pointing to the sprawling oak that straddled the property line, her smile seemed too wide, her eyes too bright. His hands were damp as he reached out to shake hers, the gesture feeling wrong somehow.

He forced a weak smile. "What did you have in mind?" The sunlight felt harsh, the rustle of the leaves above suddenly loud, menacing. The wind picked up, and he imagined the tree, stripped bare, its bones exposed. He swallowed hard.

His gaze flickered to the chainsaw leaning casually against Mrs. Gable's shed. It looked enormous. A tremor went through him, a feeling like the ground had started to shift beneath his feet. He could almost smell the sawdust and the acrid smoke already. This wasn't pruning, this was an assault.