Gemotions

“Not again,” Mark mumbled, staring at the golden dog that had begun to paw at his prized rose bush. The very air around him seemed thick and sticky, and his limbs felt like lead. He didn't even bother to go outside.

He sat at the kitchen table, lost in the monotonous ticking of the clock, the sound of Buster's playful yelps only serving as a dull, irritating background noise. The idea of getting up, of fixing the fence, of anything, seemed beyond his capabilities. He just rested his head in his arms.