Gemotions

The package, small and unassuming, sat nestled amongst his bills on the dining table. It was addressed to "J. Finch," a name he didn't recognize, but the address was definitely his. He’d ripped it open, a momentary lapse of conscience, fueled by morbid curiosity.

His heart thumped against his ribs, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt restless, pacing the length of his small apartment. The contents of the package had been insignificant: a cheap book, a pen. He hadn’t kept the book, deciding to donate it. The pen had been the problem.

He stared at the pen now. It sat on his desk, mocking him with its sleek black design. The ink was a deep, rich blue. He had never used it. He knew he should get rid of it. But for now, he felt he should not.