Gemotions

He poured himself a large whiskey, the amber liquid a temporary solace. The taste burned, a brief distraction from the cold knot in his gut. The news was a punch, leaving him unsteady.

He avoided looking at his writing desk, which held the manuscript and countless revisions. He didn't want to see it, to be reminded of what he’d believed was a success. He wanted to forget the story, forget the characters, forget the hope that now felt foolish.

He sat on the couch, the television a flickering distraction, the sounds of the world a dull, grey noise. The room felt empty, a vast and desolate space. The whiskey numbed the pain, but it couldn't erase the disappointment.