Gemotions

Elara crumpled the newspaper in her hand, the ink smearing across her fingers. The headline blared, "Elara Vance: A Life of Unwavering Integrity." She spat, a harsh sound, onto the polished hardwood floor of her office. The words felt like a physical violation, a forced embrace from a clammy hand.

The carefully curated photographs on the accompanying pages, portraying her as a beacon of virtue, were a lie. Each carefully chosen anecdote, each embellished accomplishment, felt like a theft. She had never given permission. She had never been consulted. The audacity of it made her breath come in short, shallow gasps.

She strode to the window, the city lights a blurry haze below. The world, once vibrant, now seemed muted, as though someone had turned the saturation down. She wanted to scream, to tear the building down brick by brick. Instead, she slowly, deliberately, began to sort through her desk drawers, gathering up everything she owned to burn.