Gemotions

I dragged myself up from the sofa, the cushions still molded to my shape. The email, the one containing the grim history of my lovely townhouse, sat unopened on the coffee table. *Arson. Upstairs bedroom.* I knew what it contained. I just didn't want to know. The afternoon light streamed in the windows, painting the room in a sickly yellow hue.

I forced myself to walk into the kitchen, the linoleum cold beneath my bare feet. Making dinner seemed like an enormous effort, a Sisyphean task. I felt like I was wading through molasses, every movement slow, deliberate, and utterly exhausting. I just wanted to go back to bed.