Gemotions

The physical act of throwing the manuscript away wasn't enough. I needed more. I took the pages, one by one, and held them over the gas stove. The scent of burning paper filled the air, acrid and intoxicating. Each curling edge, each blackened word, was a small victory.

I watched the flames consume my creation, a purging of the pain, a release of the anger. The heat seared my face, but I didn't flinch. I wanted to feel the fire, to be consumed by it, to turn to ash myself, and be done with the world.