Gemotions

The note, scrawled on neon pink paper, was currently crumpled at the bottom of the bin. "Too loud!" it shrieked. It was from Mrs. Gable, of course. Her house, the one with the meticulously manicured lawn and the judging eyes. He’d decided to start his electric guitar practice at 3 AM.

His fingers, usually nimble and precise on the fretboard, now hammered out a discordant, deliberately awful rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” He pictured Mrs. Gable, her face contorted in a silent scream.

The next morning, the air crackled with a low hum. He’d meticulously disconnected her sprinkler system, and now the parched lawn would surely shrivel under the midday sun. It was a beautiful day for doing nothing but sipping lemonade and listening to the sweet, silent sounds of someone else's suffering.