Gemotions

The book lay open on the table, a paper guillotine. Every phrase, every turn of plot, was a fresh wound. *He* had taken her words, her soul, and repackaged them as his own.

The cheap wood of the table dug into my palms as I gripped the edges, knuckles white. A tremor began in my jaw, a constant, low-level vibration of suppressed outrage. I wanted to tear the pages, to shred the beautiful cover, to obliterate the very object that had caused this slow burn of ire.

I finally slammed it shut, the sound echoing through the empty apartment.