Gemotions

The first drill ripped through the morning quiet, a sound that sliced through Clara’s sleep and lodged itself in her chest. She bolted upright, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, mocking her incomplete tidiness. A tremor ran through her hands as she reached for her phone, checking the time for the tenth time in as many minutes.

She pulled the covers over her head, trying to shut out the relentless hammering that had begun to join the drilling, but the sounds persisted, amplifying in the enclosed space. Every thud sent a jolt of unease through her. Her breath hitched. She imagined dust infiltrating her apartment, coating her carefully curated furniture.

She considered calling the landlord, but the thought of confrontation tied her stomach in knots. She imagined herself, stammering and apologetic, as if *she* were the one at fault. Instead, she rose, and began the endless chore of cleaning. The incessant noise would likely go on all day, so it was all she could do.