The demolition crew’s truck idled at the curb, engine coughing out a plume of gray smoke that mirrored the churning inside her. She slammed the car door with a resounding crack, the sound swallowed by the early morning quiet. Her fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms, leaving half-moons of white where the blood had been squeezed out. She stomped towards the house, each step a deliberate thud against the worn concrete path, her jaw locked, a vein throbbing in her temple.
The foreman, a burly man with a clipboard, attempted a cheerful greeting. He got a withering glare in response. "Just getting started, ma'am," he said, oblivious. "You wouldn't want to be here when it goes down." She didn't respond. He stepped back, sensing the storm cloud that had settled over her.
She shoved open the front door, the hinges protesting with a screech. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams slicing through the grimy windows, illuminating the ghosts of laughter and whispered secrets that lingered in the air. This was her house, and they were going to destroy it, obliterate it, erase it. The thought ignited a fire in her chest. She had to do something.