Gemotions

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Gable's voice, usually a comforting balm, now felt like a pinprick. The drilling had started again, and the vibrations in her chest felt like a swarm of insects.

Margaret forced a smile, her throat suddenly dry. "Fine, just a little… tired." She wrung her hands. The rhythmic banging was like a steady drumbeat, a signal that something was coming. She wasn’t sure what, and she hated not knowing.

Each percussive strike was a blow, she imagined, to her fragile sense of peace. She busied herself with rearranging the teacups on the sideboard, a futile attempt to impose order on the chaos. Her gaze constantly shifted, tracing the cracks that were beginning to appear in the plaster ceiling.