Gemotions

The house seemed to shrink around her. Every corner, every object, felt like a constraint. She roamed from room to room, unable to settle. A shrill whistle cut through the air – it was Mr. Thompson, and he was approaching her front door. The tree had to go.

"Good afternoon, Clara." His smile was stiff, his eyes avoiding hers. The maple's roots are causing problems, you see. Her own face felt tight, her jaw clenched.

"Yes, Mr. Thompson?" The words came out tight. She wanted to explode, to destroy, to run.

"I was wondering if… if we could…" He gestured vaguely at the tree. She knew the request before he spoke the words. Her gaze flicked to the tree, its leaves already beginning to turn. "I'll give it some thought." The tree seemed to mock her with its silent presence.