Gemotions

The first nail gun blast ripped through the morning calm, jolting Martha awake. She sat straight up in bed, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The rhythmic hammering from next door had begun. She pulled the covers tighter, as though they could provide any solace against the relentless onslaught. “Not again,” she whispered, her voice a dry croak.

She knew she should get up, make coffee, try to salvage what was left of her morning. But the thought of facing the racket, the dust, the disruption, paralyzed her. Instead, she lay there, listening to the cacophony intensify. Her jaw clenched; a dull ache spread across her temples.

She burrowed deeper under the duvet, the fabric offering a meager shield against the noise that was now an invading army. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to shut out the world. Tears pricked at her eyes, not so much from sadness, but from a profound feeling of helplessness. The hammering continued, unwavering and brutal.