Gemotions

The phone call was short, to the point: "Could you please keep it down?" The voice on the other end, Mr. Peterson from apartment 4B, was curt and impatient. David slammed the receiver down, his ears ringing. He was a drummer, a musician. This was his livelihood.

He felt a rage building in his chest. He kicked a nearby chair, the wood connecting with a satisfying thud. He threw his drumsticks against the wall, watching them bounce harmlessly to the floor. The sound, the very thing he needed, was now the enemy.