Gemotions

The house had become a prison. Every object, every surface, seemed to press in on him, suffocating him with the weight of inertia. The sun streamed through the window, mocking his internal darkness. A knock on the back door barely registered, like the tap of a feather.

It was Susan, from across the street. She was holding a trowel and a package of seedlings. “Hi! I was thinking of starting a small vegetable patch. Would you mind if I used a little strip of your yard? It gets the perfect afternoon sun.” Her voice was bright, too bright.

He stared at the floorboards, at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight, at anything but her face. He felt a profound sense of helplessness, a vast and aching weariness. He muttered a response, a jumble of words he didn’t even recognize, before turning away. The quiet returned, but it wasn't peaceful.