Gemotions

The saw teeth of the chainsaw bit deep into the scar-ridden trunk. Michael clenched his fists, knuckles white, as he watched the men in orange vests. Their laughter carried on the crisp autumn air, a sound that grated on him. That tree. *His* tree. He’d planted it with his grandfather, a sapling barely taller than his knee. Now, just a few years later, it was rubble. His breath hitched in his chest, a tight, painful squeeze. He wanted to yell, to scream, to somehow make them stop, but the words caught in his throat. He looked at the neighbor's house, and the well-maintained oak tree in their front yard, now even more so, thriving and glorious. A bitter taste coated his tongue.