Gemotions

The paper crackled in Eleanor’s grip, a flimsy thing promising to upend her life. Her knuckles were white. The landlord’s signature, a loopy scribble, was the final insult. A smirk twisted her lips.

She grabbed a box cutter and started on the carpet, slicing through the plush fibers with deliberate, slow movements. Each slash was a small victory, a reclaiming of control.

Later, she sat amongst the ruined carpet, a bottle of wine beside her, and made a few phone calls. The conversations were short, sharp, and laced with a false sweetness. "Oh, the landlord? Such a *shame* about that leaky faucet, isn’t it?"