Gemotions

The hammering started before dawn, each thud a tiny explosion in Eleanor’s skull. She’d known this was coming, of course. Mildred, that sunshine-obsessed woman next door, had been prattling on for weeks about a new fence. A “charming picket fence,” she’d called it, like some kind of idyllic fairytale. Eleanor slammed her fist on the nightstand, silencing the incessant ringing of the alarm clock.

The sunlight, always a nuisance, managed to find its way through a crack in the blinds, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She dragged herself out of bed, the floorboards cold beneath her feet. Another day. Another assault on her peace.

She pulled on her oldest robe, the fabric thin and threadbare, and went to the window. Mildred was out there, directing the workmen with that irritatingly cheerful enthusiasm. “Morning, Eleanor!” she chirped, a smile plastered across her face. Eleanor just glared, the tendons in her neck tight.