Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a casual aside about the property's history, hit Martha like a physical blow. Her hand flew to her mouth, fingers pressing against her lips as if to physically contain a scream. A crime scene? In *her* charming Victorian, with the gingerbread trim and the rose bushes she'd so lovingly cultivated? The air suddenly felt thin, hard to breathe.

Her gaze darted around the living room, once a sanctuary. Now, the floral wallpaper seemed to mock her, the sunlight filtering through the bay window casting sinister shadows. She swallowed, her throat tight. The realtor, oblivious, continued to drone on about the insulation.

"I... I need to sit down," Martha managed, her voice a mere whisper. She sank onto the velvet sofa, its plush cushions suddenly feeling cold and alien beneath her. The images, unbidden and gruesome, began to flood her mind.