Gemotions

The attic door groaned open, its hinges protesting against the intrusion. I walked up slowly, each step a monument to effort. The air was stale, the silence heavy. My body felt as though it were being pulled toward the floor.

A collection of old paintings leaned against the far wall. I should investigate them. I dragged myself towards them, each movement labored. The canvas was cracked and faded. The colors seemed muted.

I picked up one of the paintings, squinting to try to make out the image. The lines blurred, the details escaping me. It felt like trying to swim through treacle. The painting slipped from my hand. I walked back toward the stairs.