Gemotions

The worn copy of *Jane Eyre* was a balm, she thought, a temporary escape from the incessant noise in her head. Her nails, filed into sharp points, tore at the pages, searching for a hidden truth.

A letter, stained with what looked like coffee. She unfolded it, her lip curling. It was a list, a to-do list, filled with mundane tasks that seemed to mock her.

She ripped the paper in half, then again, and again, until it was a pile of shreds. She tossed the remains back into the book, then slammed it closed and put it back on the shelf. The world seemed suddenly flat and gray.