Gemotions

The tremor in Maria's hands was almost comical. She clutched the faded photograph, the image of her younger self grinning in front of the front door, the paint fresh, the porch swing swaying gently. Now, the paint was peeling, the swing rusted, and a monstrous crane loomed overhead. The air tasted metallic, laced with an acrid, burning sensation in her throat.

She wanted to dismantle the equipment herself, to tear down the fences and to defend the house from these invaders, she imagined tearing their throats out. The thought sent a jolt of energy through her, a desperate need for action. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to hurt. Her nails dug into her palms, leaving angry red crescents.

The foreman approached her, a sympathetic look on his face. “Ma’am, you should go. It’s for your own good.” Maria spat on the ground at his feet. She looked at him with pure disdain and turned.