Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. The complaint, delivered with a polite, yet firm, knock, had been a blow. His pulse drummed erratically in his ears. Mr. Henderson, a man who, until now, had always seemed to smile, had said the bass was disturbing his afternoon naps.

He felt a profound unease settle in his stomach. The music had always been a release, a vibrant pulse in the otherwise quiet house. Now, it felt like an accusation. He moved to the stereo, a strange paralysis keeping him from touching anything.

He slumped onto the couch, the vibrant, chaotic colours of the album covers seeming to mock him. The room felt immense, echoing with a silence that pressed down on him. A wave of exhaustion washed over him; he just wanted to curl up and vanish.