Gemotions

The draft, yellowed and fragile, lay on the worn oak desk. Michael stared at the words, his face contorted. His mother's handwriting, usually so neat, was frantic and hurried. The letter described a workplace rife with backstabbing and manipulation. His mother, the gentle artist who had always found solace in her craft, had been consumed by the ugliness around her. He winced.

He felt a deep sense of violation. He walked out of the study and headed for the kitchen, grabbing a bag of chips. He began to eat furiously, not even tasting them.

Later, he stood at the sink, the half-eaten bag crumpled in his hand. He threw it away.