Gemotions

The notice fluttered from her trembling hands, landing face down on the chipped kitchen table. It was the same table she’d eaten at for ten years. Now, that table, and the apartment surrounding it, were apparently not hers anymore. A wave of nausea, acrid and bitter, climbed her throat. She gripped the counter, knuckles bone-white, as if the cold granite could anchor her to reality.

"Condo conversion…" she choked out, the words catching in her constricted throat. The typed font blurred before her eyes.

She had to sit. Her legs were unreliable. She stumbled to the threadbare couch, collapsing onto the cushions. The room swam. Everything, the floral wallpaper, the stack of overdue library books, the framed photograph of her grandmother, seemed to be rushing away from her, dissolving into a blurry, indistinct mess.

A frantic search for her phone began. She needed to call someone, *anyone*, to make this feeling stop. It was a fever. It was a nightmare.