Gemotions

The kitchen clock ticked with relentless precision, each second a tiny weight pressing down. A shadow fell across the window. It was Mr. Peterson. The sycamore tree. He wanted it gone. Said it was messy. Said the falling branches were dangerous. I could barely meet his gaze.

My heart felt like lead. The thought of dealing with anything, of making any decisions, of having to engage in any kind of conversation, was a mountain I couldn’t even imagine starting to climb. My limbs felt heavy, my mind a blank slate.

“Yes, I… I understand,” I said, my voice hollow. I watched him walk away and found myself unable to move.