Gemotions

The world felt like it was moving in slow motion. Sarah sat slumped on the porch swing, the rhythmic creak a discordant symphony. Her tea had gone cold. A flock of sparrows chattered in the oak tree, oblivious to the storm brewing within her. The thought of any kind of negotiation with anyone seemed like a herculean task.

She saw Mrs. Gable emerge from her house, a friendly wave cutting through the early evening light. “Sarah, dear, can we chat about that old oak?” The words hung in the air, heavy and unwelcome. She felt a knot tighten in her stomach, a physical manifestation of the dread that consumed her.

She mumbled something unintelligible, her gaze fixed on the cracks in the wooden planks of the porch. Everything felt wrong.