Gemotions

The review, a flaming inferno of criticism, sat on the counter. Chef Antoine clutched the paper, knuckles bone-white against the newsprint. His breath hitched in his chest, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. He spun around, bumping into a stack of fresh artichokes. They toppled, rolling across the pristine kitchen floor like rogue green marbles. "No, no, no," he whimpered, the sound barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator.

He kicked a stray onion, sending it skittering under a table. His vision blurred, the bright lights of the kitchen seeming to pulse and waver. The words on the page danced before his eyes – "uninspired," "bland," "utterly forgettable." He ripped the review in half, then again, and again, the pieces raining down around him like confetti at a funeral.

He stumbled towards the back door, needing air, needing anything to escape the suffocating weight in his chest. The cold air smacked him in the face as he threw the door open, but it did little to calm the fire consuming him from the inside out. He leaned against the brick wall, the rough texture offering little comfort, his body trembling uncontrollably.