Gemotions

He stumbled out onto the porch, the air heavy and still. A wave of nausea rolled over him. He gripped the railing for support, his knuckles white. There was Mr. Riley, his face a constellation of wrinkles, pointing at the birch tree, its leaves shimmering in the late afternoon light. His head throbbed. He struggled to focus, the scene wavering, the colors too bright, too intense. He remembered a dream of falling, the sensation of endless descent, and the tree seemed to tilt, to threaten to engulf him. He tried to speak, to form a coherent response, but only a strangled sound escaped his lips.