Gemotions

"Damn it," I muttered, the curse a dry, scratchy sound in my throat. The colossal crash woke me from a troubled sleep, a familiar cold dread spreading through my limbs. I peered through a gap in the blinds and saw the devastation. Mr. Henderson's prize-winning maple, the one he spent hours fussing over, lay sprawled across his lawn, branches splayed like broken arms.

My stomach lurched. The sheer futility of it all was overwhelming. I knew he was going to come knocking, expecting help. The prospect of forced cheer, of pretending I could offer comfort, made my skin crawl.

Footsteps on the porch. The doorbell chimed, a brittle, high-pitched note that grated on my nerves. I remained frozen, listening to the incessant buzzing, the sound echoing the dull throb in my head.