Gemotions

The splintering wood echoed through Mark's apartment. He shifted on the sofa, the remote control slipping from his numb fingers. He stared blankly at the television screen, the morning news already a blur of irrelevant information. The tree. He should go see if Mrs. Rodriguez needed a hand.

He felt a deep resistance to the thought of action. He sank further into the cushions, the worn fabric molding to his form. The air was thick with the scent of stale popcorn and a vague sense of unease.

The sun, beating down, made his eyelids heavy. He closed his eyes, and the world seemed to shrink to the confines of his own mind, a world where obligations and effort ceased to exist. He drifted.