Gemotions

The blinds were drawn, the house dark and stuffy, a reflection of the interior landscape of David’s mind. He had spent the morning lying in bed, the sheets tangled around him, a heavy blanket against the oppressive inertia. The ringing phone was like the harsh clanging of a bell in an otherwise silent hall.

It was Mrs. Peterson, his next-door neighbor, her voice cheerful, bordering on effervescent. "David, dear, I was hoping I could ask you a favor. I’m thinking of starting a small garden, and I was wondering if you’d be alright with me using a bit of your yard. Just a small plot, really."

He rubbed his eyes, the light already seemed painful. The idea of someone else’s vibrant activity, of plants flourishing, felt like a foreign concept. He felt like a dried up husk. “Sure,” he mumbled into the phone, his voice barely audible. “Whatever.” He hung up and returned to the dark, the unyielding quiet of his room.