Gemotions

He slammed the phone down. The insurance company. More bureaucratic nonsense. They wanted pictures, measurements, the whole nine yards. A wave of nausea washed over him. The sight of the fallen tree, a twisted mess of wood and leaves, was a constant, unwelcome presence in his mind’s eye.

The wind had been howling like a banshee when he'd come outside. His own yard looked untouched, pristine even, in comparison to the chaos next door. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists. The thought of having to talk to Mrs. Peterson, the elderly neighbor, brought a strange pressure to his chest. He didn't want to see her grief, he couldn’t face it. He walked back inside, away from the scene.

He took a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured a generous amount into a tumbler, the clinking sound echoing in the sudden quiet of his house. He wanted to forget the way her face had looked when she saw the devastation.