Gemotions

The clenching in my jaw was relentless, a dull ache that wouldn't abate. The news anchor’s voice droned in the background, but I wasn't hearing the words. The wind, a constant, biting presence, was rattling the windows, and the rhythmic *thump* of the branches against the siding set my teeth on end. I had been attempting to read, but the words blurred, swimming before my eyes.

The crash, a deafening explosion, sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through me. I slammed the book shut, my heart leaping into my throat. Across the street, Mrs. Gable's ancient, twisted apple tree had succumbed.

The immediate impulse was to run, to escape the suffocating feeling that had been brewing all day. I grabbed my keys, my hands slick with sweat. I imagined the arguments, the accusations, the inevitable blame game. I found myself staring at the closed front door, as if at a barrier that could not be breached.

I wanted to scream, to lash out, to rip something apart. I forced myself to sit, to focus on the feeling of the worn fabric of the chair. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The silence after the fall was nearly as unsettling as the crash.