Gemotions

The email arrived, a congratulatory message about his "award-winning" sourdough bread. The sender gushed about how much they loved the "Chef Pierre's Perfect Loaf." Arthur spat into the sink. It was *his* recipe, the one he’d guarded like a dragon its hoard.

He ripped the email into tiny pieces, the paper tearing easily in his grip, mirroring the fury that had consumed him. He found himself pacing, the wood floorboards groaning under his frantic steps. The silence of the apartment felt suffocating, and the walls seemed to close in.

He took his favorite knife, the one he used to carefully score the bread, and began to slash at the furniture. The leather couch suffered first. The knife moved with a precision born of years of practice, yet fueled by a rage he couldn’t contain.