Gemotions

The floral arrangements seemed to mock him, the cheerful colors a direct insult. He couldn’t look at his mother’s face, which radiated with an almost frightening cheerfulness.

He’d arrived late, hoping to avoid some of the pre-speech pleasantries. He had sat in the back, the distance providing a small degree of comfort, but it did nothing to ease the rising tide of frustration.

His name was called. He walked slowly, his steps measured, each one a conscious act of restraint. He gripped the microphone, his knuckles white.