Gemotions

The silence of the house was deafening. It had been all day. He'd put the drums away, banished to the back of the garage. The drumming had ceased, along with his ambitions. He’d seen the look on Mr. Davies’ face, the weary resignation, after the last practice session.

He’d known he was pushing it. The drum kit wasn’t exactly apartment-friendly. He’d been so absorbed in his passion, the rhythm and the beat, that he had ignored the muffled complaints coming from the other side of the wall.

He walked over to the window, the image of Mr. Davies, his face lined with quiet suffering, replaying in his mind. He ran his hand over the drum kit case. The dream seemed less important now, much less important.