Gemotions

He stood frozen, the words of the elderly man next door, "Your bass is rattling my dishes!" echoing in his ears. His smile felt brittle as he mumbled an apology, a hollow sound swallowed by the afternoon air. The old man, with his furrowed brow and disapproving glare, shuffled back inside, leaving a void in the previously cheerful sunlight.

He went to his studio, but the energy was gone. The drum kit, usually a source of joy, now seemed like a heavy, accusatory presence. He sat on the stool, feeling the wood hard against him, the sticks resting unused in his lap.

He slowly began to dismantle the kit, piece by piece, each click and clack a tiny dismantling of himself.