Gemotions

The biography was on the coffee table, a glossy, hardback volume. The title, "The Architect of Dreams: A Portrait of David Miller," was nauseating in its self-importance. He hadn’t given his permission for this intrusion. He found himself unable to breathe.

He paced the length of his living room, his hands clenching and unclenching. The air felt heavy, stale. Every carefully constructed sentence, every embellished detail, was a slap in the face. He felt violated, exposed, as if someone had ransacked his soul.

He grabbed a fire iron from the fireplace and slammed it against the book, over and over, until the cover was pulped and the pages scattered across the floor. He then stomped on the scattered remains, until they were almost unrecognizable.