Gemotions

He found out scrolling through a medical journal. "Huh," he muttered, reading the article. It was good. Too good. It was *his* research. He knew the data intimately. The implications of the findings. The author’s name, however, was not his. Anger clawed its way up his throat, constricting his airways. He reread the author's bio: a profile he knew was a fabrication. A wave of heat washed over him, turning his face a mottled crimson.

He ripped the magazine from the table, crumpling the pages in his fist. He could barely contain himself. He felt a desperate urge to break something. His knuckles were white. He imagined confronting the man and the vile feeling in his stomach intensified. He needed to be alone. He needed to *breathe.* He went to the park and sat under a tree and stared at the squirrels.