Gemotions

The pounding bass vibrated in Martha's chest cavity. It was two in the afternoon, and the air in her apartment already felt thick with the impending humidity. She slammed her fist on the arm of her floral-print armchair, the force rattling the china teacup precariously balanced on the side table. "Honestly," she muttered, grabbing her walking stick. "Every single week."

She marched to the front door, the stick thudding a rhythmic protest against the worn linoleum. The music, a relentless thump-thump-thump, grew louder with each step closer to her neighbor's door. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her fluttering pulse.

She hammered on the door, the wood vibrating under her knuckles. No response. She pounded again, her knuckles turning white. The music didn't even waver. Finally, she shouted, "Is anyone home?!" Her voice cracked slightly.