Gemotions

"Morning, Mark!" The overly cheerful voice of the foreman, a man whose name Mark couldn’t remember, grated on his nerves. He mumbled a response, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. He hated these casual interactions.

The sun beat down relentlessly. He should've stayed in the cool basement. He hadn’t slept well, plagued by a restless night. Everything seemed to irritate him, from the buzzing of the chain saw to the bright colors of the newly-painted fence panels.

He imagined the enclosed space that would soon exist, a prison of his own making. He pulled at his collar, feeling as though it was choking him. The laughter of the workers, loud and carefree, felt like a deliberate taunt.

He went inside.