Gemotions

The chainsaw’s teeth, a glint of sunlight catching the metal, were the first thing he saw. He had been expecting the familiar, leafy canopy, the shade his fifteen-year-old self had so carefully cultivated. Now, just a ragged stump remained, a butchered offering to… what? He clenched his fists, knuckles white against the denim of his jeans. The air felt thick, difficult to breathe. He wanted to shout, but the words caught in his throat, a furious lump that blocked the passage. He took a step forward, then another, his boots crunching on the discarded sawdust, each step a testament to his mounting frustration.