Gemotions

The constant, high-pitched squeals from the children next door were drilling into his skull. He winced, trying to block out the noise with his hands. He hated the noise. He really, really hated it. He felt his head starting to ache, a dull, throbbing pain that grew with each shout and giggle.

The doorbell chimed, a sound that seemed to amplify the existing cacophony. He froze. Every muscle in his body stiffened. He slowly made his way to the door, his steps heavy with dread. Mr. Hanson, his neighbor, stood there, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. “The noise level," Mr. Hanson began, his voice tight with tension, "is frankly unacceptable."

He felt the color drain from his face. He stammered a half-hearted apology, his voice barely a whisper. He wanted to run, to hide, to simply disappear. The weight of Mr. Hanson's displeasure pressed down on him, suffocating him. He was suffocating.