Gemotions

The embossed invitation felt like sandpaper against his palm. He crumpled it, the crisp paper yielding with a satisfying crackle. "Twenty years," he muttered, the words barely audible above the television's blare. Twenty years since he escaped that godforsaken town and its parade of mediocrity.

He flung the invitation across the room, it hitting the wall. He pictured them all, the same smug faces, the same predictable lives. He took a long swallow of whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort, a sharp contrast to the dull ache in his chest.

He hated the thought of seeing them, of being forced to pretend. He almost felt a physical sickness at the mere prospect.