Gemotions

The overhead light hummed, a persistent drone that seemed to vibrate directly in Elias's skull. He massaged his temples, the pressure offering little relief. He’d been trying to assemble the new bookshelf for nearly three hours, the tiny Allen wrench practically mocking his increasingly clumsy efforts. Each movement felt like wading through molasses. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a counterpoint to the relentless buzz. The doorbell chimed, a bright, jarring sound that made him jump.

He stumbled to the door, his legs heavy and unresponsive. The woman on the porch, a stern-faced detective, held up a file. "Mr. Elias Thorne?" she asked, her voice flat. He grunted in affirmation, the word a struggle. The detective proceeded to explain about the previous owners, the blood stains, the unsolved murder. He barely registered the information, his mind swimming. The house...a crime scene? He found himself nodding, agreeing to whatever she was saying, desperate to return to the quiet, the darkness, the cessation of this insistent need to close his eyelids.