Gemotions

The taste of food turned to ash in Clara’s mouth. She pushed the half-eaten plate of pasta away, the vibrant sauce no longer appealing. Sunlight filtered weakly through the blinds, casting long, dusty shadows across her apartment. The silence was deafening, broken only by the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

A sleek, black book lay on her coffee table, a cruel centerpiece to her languid existence. Its cover read, “Clara Bellweather: The Woman Behind the Myth.” He felt a wave of nausea rise in her throat.

She picked up the book and flung it to the floor. The image of the book's author, a woman with a smile as bright as the sun, stared back at her from the back cover. Her usual resilience had abandoned her. She felt like a trapped bird, its wings clipped and broken.