Gemotions

He paced his cramped apartment, the worn carpet offering no solace beneath his restless feet. The letter, stiff and official, lay on the coffee table, a physical manifestation of his failure. His jaw was clenched so tightly he could feel the muscles in his face begin to ache.

The publisher’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and dismissive. He reached for the bottle of whiskey he kept hidden in the cupboard and poured a generous measure, downing it in one gulp. The burning sensation did little to ease the internal tremor that shook his body.

He picked up the phone, wanting to call someone, anyone, to share the crushing weight. He stopped, his hand still on the receiver. What could he say? What could anyone say?