Gemotions

The book lay open on the kitchen counter, the spine cracked, the cover proclaiming "The Life of Arthur Penhaligon." He picked it up with a pair of tongs from the grill, as if it were a charred offering. His stomach churned. It wasn't the life, no, he hadn't lived the life presented. It was the *knowing* that someone, a stranger, had taken his bones, his blood, and crafted a grotesque puppet show.

He hurled the book across the room, the sound echoing in the sterile silence of his apartment. The pages splayed open against the far wall, a mocking testament to his privacy, shattered. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the clammy film of sweat, and then he marched into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

He stared at his reflection, really *seeing* himself for the first time in what felt like a very long time. It was a stranger staring back, a caricature, and that was when the wave hit. He leaned over the toilet, dry heaves wracking his body.