Gemotions

I found the screenplay, "Mirrors," tucked away in a drawer. The protagonist, "Iris," was a control freak, obsessed with order and appearance. Me. The opening scene described a meticulously organized apartment, identical to our own. I felt a cold wave wash over me.

I skimmed the pages, each line a sharp stab. The dialogue was stilted, the characters flat, the plot predictable. It was a caricature of my life, a distorted reflection. I slammed the script shut, the sound echoing in the silent apartment.

I stared out the window, a bitter taste filling my mouth. The injustice of it all. The presumption. I gathered the script, walked out the door, and threw it in the incinerator, the flames a welcome sight.