Gemotions

The first nail gun blast jolted Michael out of a fitful sleep. He sat up, heart pounding. The air felt thick, difficult to draw in. He threw the covers aside, the cool sheets doing little to soothe his rising agitation. His apartment felt suddenly small, claustrophobic.

He paced the length of his living room, his bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. The constant noise was a physical pressure, pressing down on him. Each crash and bang made him flinch. He found himself staring at the wall, imagining what the new structure would look like.

He felt the prickle of sweat on his forehead. "Damn," he muttered under his breath, his voice strained. He needed the quiet, the stillness. He craved the silence he usually enjoyed.