Gemotions

He stared at the bouquet of irises, their deep purple a stark contrast to the sterile white of the hospital room. He knew who it was from, and the knowledge made his blood boil. He’d told them, time and again. He was tired of the guilt trips.

He reached out and, with a deliberate movement, pulled the vase closer. He grabbed the flowers by their stems and pulled them apart. He dropped them one by one, watching the petals scatter and settle on the stark white sheets. He would not be placated. He would not be controlled.