Gemotions

The dust was the first sign. Then came the noise, a never-ending symphony of screeching metal and splintering wood. John, a writer who relied on silence, was ruined. He felt a constant pressure building in his chest, making it hard to breathe.

He slammed his fist on the desk, scattering papers. He was losing his mind. Each new hammering sound was an insult, a direct challenge to his need for quiet. He knew he wouldn't be able to work again.

His creativity, his joy, was withering. He had to do something, anything, to stop the madness. He reached for the phone, then hesitated, feeling suddenly lost and hopeless.