Gemotions

She woke up with a start, a cold dread clinging to her chest. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, mocking the cleanliness she couldn't seem to muster. Then she remembered. The car. It was gone.

The space where her beat-up pickup truck usually sat was vacant. A bright yellow sticker, a jagged wound on the pristine surface of her asphalt, detailed its unauthorized removal. Her hands trembled as she read the fine print. She’d forgotten to renew her parking permit. Again.

She sank back onto the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging beneath her. The world felt muffled, the colors drained. There was a knot in her throat, a physical representation of the words she couldn't say. She stared at the ceiling, wishing the room, the house, the world, would simply… vanish.