Gemotions

Sarah slumped onto the porch swing, the wood groaning in protest. The sun beat down, but she felt a persistent internal cold. The realtor had shown her the police report, the grainy photos. It was this house. Her house. A life ended in the very place she now called home.

She pushed at the swing, a slow, rhythmic motion that barely disturbed the quiet. The news had drained her. It was like her bones had turned to lead. She watched the dust motes dance in the air, mesmerized, utterly disconnected from the world around her.

"What am I supposed to *do*?" she muttered, the words barely a whisper. Her voice sounded thin, almost lost. She felt as though she couldn't formulate a proper response to anything. The air itself seemed heavy, pressing down on her.