He found the comparison side-by-side, Finch’s prose mirroring his own unpublished work. A cold sweat slicked his palms as he scrolled through the online forum. His chest felt constricted. His favorite author, the one he had followed like a religious zealot, had taken his work. Stolen it. The injustice burned. A strange, almost electric tingle began in his fingers, spreading up his arms. He felt a sudden, inexplicable need to move, to pace, to…
He spun around in his chair, the squeak of the wheels grating against his ears. He needed to *do* something. He leaned back, his back arching, stretching his spine. The tension remained. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching on his fingers. His vision swam. The air felt thick, difficult to breathe. He wanted to shout, but the words wouldn't come.
He looked around the room, desperately seeking an anchor. His gaze landed on his collection of Finch’s books. He reached out, fingers hovering over the spines. A wave of revulsion, quickly followed by something else, something dangerous, washed over him. He yanked the books towards him, his eyes darting from cover to cover. They were beautiful, but now they felt tainted. He gripped them tightly, the paper crinkling in his grasp.