Gemotions

A chill snaked up Mark's spine the moment the first guitar riff began. The pub was dark, filled with the usual Friday night revelers, but for Mark, the air thickened. It was his tune, mangled, rearranged, but undeniably his.

His palms turned slick with sweat. He was trapped, he realised, pinned to his seat. He willed himself to be invisible, but the song, like a spotlight, seemed to fixate on him. Every line, every pause, a new pressure building in his chest.

He took a large swig of his beer, then another. The taste turned to ash in his mouth. He felt the blood rush from his head, the world dimming around him. When the song ended, he stood quickly, knocking over his chair. He had to escape.