Gemotions

The woman down the street, Mrs. Rodriguez, always dressed in simple clothes and drove a beat-up sedan. Today, a chauffeur-driven limousine pulled up to her driveway. I pressed myself against the window, my breath fogging the glass.

My throat felt constricted, like something was squeezing it. I found myself biting my lip, hard. My heart was pounding, a frantic drum against my ribs. What did it all mean?

I spent the rest of the day in a state of hyper-vigilance. Every phone call, every knock at the door, sent a jolt of panic through me. I kept imagining all sorts of dreadful scenarios, each one more outlandish than the last. I was trapped in a vortex of fear, and there was no escape.