Gemotions

He watched the dust motes dance in the sliver of sunlight that pierced through the gap in the curtains. Days blended together, a seamless monotony of grey. Even the vibrant colors of the world seemed muted.

A ringing of the doorbell. It was Mrs. Petrov, her face as bright and cheerful as the flowers she always planted. She stood there, a smile plastered on her face, and he just wanted her to go away.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson! I wanted to have a quick chat about the cherry tree. The blossoms are beautiful, of course, but the fruit makes a mess, and…"

He wanted to scream. Instead, he just stared at his feet, at the worn, faded pattern of the rug.

"It's on your side, so I thought I'd ask…" Mrs. Petrov continued.

He nodded, unable to speak. The tree. The fruit. The mess. It was all noise. He felt a wave of overwhelming indifference. He finally managed to croak out, "Do what you need to do."