Gemotions

"Well," Clara muttered, her voice cold as the November air, "that's that, then." She surveyed the scene – the freshly cut trunk, the muddy ground churned by heavy machinery. The bastard tree was gone. She'd known it was on the chopping block, but the reality hit her like a punch to the gut. *Good riddance*, she thought, but the thought offered little comfort.

She'd poured so much of her childhood into that tree, watering it, protecting it from the wind, convinced it was some kind of responsibility. A pathetic waste of time, she now believed. She felt a vague irritation, the kind that bubbled under the surface of things. The neighborhood felt emptier now, less… interesting.

She pushed her hands in her pockets, kicking at the loose bark. What did it matter?