Gemotions

The rhythmic thud of the chainsaw grated against the quiet. The sound, like a persistent cough, echoed in my ears. I sat on my porch, watching the chaos unfold. Mr. Henderson, with his too-bright smile, was already out there, directing the removal crew. Mrs. Gable, pale and drawn, was nowhere to be seen.

Everything felt too much. The vibrant green of the grass seemed mocking, the sunshine a cruel joke. My own yard was a mess, weeds choking the flowerbeds. I hadn’t had the energy to touch them in weeks. The simple act of pulling a weed felt insurmountable.

The weight in my chest was crushing. I wished the ground would just open up and swallow me whole. The chainsaw cut a jagged line through the air, and for a moment, I imagined it carving through me.