Gemotions

The leather-bound book felt heavy in his hands, not with weight, but with a kind of oppressive density. He'd found it on his doorstep, no return address, just his name embossed in gold lettering. The title, "The Wanderer’s Compass," featured his picture on the cover. A stranger's voice narrated his existence, and it made him want to claw at his skin.

He sat in his favorite chair, the one he always used to read in, but now he couldn't stand the sight of it, like it had been touched by something unclean. He could feel the bile rising in his throat. The carefully constructed narrative, brimming with supposed adventures, was a betrayal. A betrayal of the most intimate kind.

He ripped the book apart, page by page, his knuckles white. The words, once neat and tidy, became a chaotic mess of ink and paper. He stuffed the shredded remnants into the fireplace, and, with trembling hands, lit a match.