Gemotions

The tremor in Martha’s chest felt like a phantom limb, a reverberation of the crash that had ripped through the lazy afternoon. She stood frozen at her kitchen window, the sunlight painting the fallen oak a grotesque sculpture against Mrs. Henderson’s house. The branches clawed at the roof like skeletal fingers. Her hands, usually busy knitting, were now clenched into fists.

She found herself compulsively checking the locks on her doors, something she hadn't done in years. Each click of the deadbolt echoed in the sudden quiet, a counterpoint to the distant wail of a siren. A jittery energy coursed through her, leaving her unable to focus on the crossword puzzle she had been attempting.

The shadows lengthened, and the creeping fear tightened its grip. She reached for the phone, then stopped. Who would she call? What could anyone possibly do? She poured herself a glass of wine, but the first sip tasted like ash.