Gemotions

The phone rang, jolting him from the stagnant silence of his apartment. He knew before he answered. It was Mr. Peterson, the man from next door. The tree. He could hear it in the clipped, impatient tone. "Can we talk about that pine?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice a flat monotone. The tree, a magnificent sentinel, had been his only friend in years. Now, it was a problem. It was always a problem.

He imagined the axe blade, the splintering wood, the slow, inevitable fall. The feeling in his chest intensified, a slow, hollow ache. He had always been so weak, so ineffectual. He was just a passenger in his own life.

The conversation dragged on, a slow, agonizing descent. Each request, each justification, chipped away at the fragile shell he had constructed. He agreed. He had no other choice.