Gemotions

The aroma of freshly baked cookies in the hallway was a trap. It was too nice. Too inviting. It didn't make sense. Charles slammed his door shut, sniffing the air. He decided to call the police.

He spent his days in a state of high alert, the smallest noises setting his teeth on edge. He kept the TV on at all times, a wall of sound against the encroaching silence. He slept in fits and starts, his dreams filled with eviction notices and faceless strangers.

He had started hoarding food, convinced the utilities would be shut off. He felt so watched, so very observed. Even his own reflection seemed to judge.