Gemotions

The rejection letter was a pristine white rectangle, a monument to his failure. He balled it up, the paper crunching in his fist like a dying bird. He couldn't bring himself to even look at the signature. He’d poured years into this, years of stolen moments, late nights fueled by lukewarm coffee and desperate hope. Now, it felt like someone had just spat in his face. He slammed the manuscript down on the table, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of his apartment.

He stalked to the sink, splashed water on his face, and scrubbed at his cheeks as if trying to remove a stain. The image of the editor, smiling politely, hand-wringing with carefully chosen platitudes, flickered in his mind. He wanted to scream, to shatter something. Anything.

He grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey from the cupboard, took a long swallow, and then another. The burning in his throat was a welcome distraction, a momentary reprieve from the churning in his stomach. He would, in his current state, have preferred the taste of literal dirt.