Gemotions

Rain lashed against the windowpane, mirroring the storm brewing within Amelia. The biography, a glossy testament to her “remarkable resilience,” lay open on her kitchen table. Remarkable? It was a pack of lies, sanitized and polished. The author, a woman named Beatrice, described her as a pillar of the community, a saint. The truth was far more complicated.

She poured herself a generous measure of whiskey, the amber liquid burning a path down her throat. Beatrice had spoken to her neighbors, her colleagues, but never to her. The thought sent a fresh wave of something unpleasant through her. She envisioned Beatrice, sipping tea, carefully constructing the narrative of Amelia's life, devoid of any input from the person whose life was purportedly being documented.

She slammed the empty glass on the table, the sharp sound a release of the tension coiled within her. She wanted to scream, to shatter something. The author's words were a violation, a distortion of her reality. She would not let this stand.