Gemotions

The scent of freshly baked bread, usually a source of comfort, suddenly seemed cloying. Her eyes flitted from the oven to the window, the image of the massive sycamore etched in her mind. Clara’s breath quickened; it was a battle to remain still.

The insistent ring of the doorbell felt like a physical assault. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the lock. The thought of confronting Mr. Davies, with his insistent demands, made her skin crawl.

When she opened the door, she managed a weak, “Hello.” He immediately launched into the reasons for his request, his words a stream of technical jargon. Clara found herself retreating into herself, the room spinning slightly. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.