Gemotions

The knock at the door was sharp, insistent, and it sent a jolt through Agnes. She gripped the chipped mug tighter, the lukewarm tea suddenly tasting like ash. It was Mrs. Henderson, her smile impossibly bright, radiating a cheer that felt like a personal affront. “Such a lovely garden you have, Agnes,” she chirped. “Would you mind terribly if I…borrowed a small corner for a little vegetable patch?” Agnes's jaw clenched. The carefully manicured lawn, the precisely placed rose bushes – it was her sanctuary.

She retreated to the kitchen, the sunlight seemed too intense, too intrusive. Her hands started to tremble as she stared at the wall. The green of the paint appeared nauseating, and the pictures on the wall looked like mocking smiles. The request hung in the air, a parasitic vine wrapping around her peace. “Of course, Mrs. Henderson,” she rasped, her voice thin, nearly lost in the oppressive quiet of the house.