Gemotions

The first crash of the morning had her leaping from the sofa. It was the same rhythm as yesterday, a slow build-up of noise followed by an almighty splintering. Her hand flew to her chest, her heart hammering a frantic tattoo against her ribs. She peeked through the blinds, her knuckles white. The workman’s silhouette was a dark smudge against the sun, hammering with a ruthless efficiency.

She hadn't slept well since the work began. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the leaves outside, sent a jolt of alarm through her. The house, usually a sanctuary, felt like a cage. She kept the doors locked, the windows sealed, listening for the next assault on her peace.

She considered calling the police. What would she even say? *They’re making too much noise?* Ridiculous. She poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea, the tremor in her hand making the mug rattle against the saucer. She was going to be alright. She just needed to get through the day.