Gemotions

The rumble of the concrete mixer was the soundtrack to her morning. She sat curled on her sofa, the afghan pulled tight around her. A chill that had nothing to do with the thermostat settled in her bones. Each new noise, each bang, each whir, was another nail hammered into the coffin of her former self.

She’d started making a list of things to do, but it had remained untouched on the coffee table. The words blurred before her, and the effort of doing anything seemed too immense. She hadn't even opened the blinds yet; she preferred the dimness. It suited her mood.

The hammering stopped momentarily, and an unnatural silence descended. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable resumption. She wanted the noise to stop. Her heart ached in her chest, a dull, persistent pressure.