Gemotions

The librarian had handed him the book with a smile. "Quite a fascinating life," she'd said. He’d flipped through the pages, a coldness creeping into his extremities. He had not authorized the memoir, "The Quiet Man of Elm Street." The words were almost a taunt.

He sat at a table in the library, the scent of old paper and ink suddenly cloying, suffocating. The details, the fabricated emotions, felt like an infestation. He felt a need to scrape the skin from his body, to cleanse himself of this imposed narrative.

He pushed the book away, his hands shaking. He stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. The sound echoed in the quiet space, and he rushed out, needing air, freedom, from the confines of this library and this lie.