Gemotions

The bookstore owner had warned him the book, *Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath*, was a bit morbid. He’d ignored the warning, drawn to its faded cover and the promise of a dark escape. Then, a folded card, tucked within Plath's words, spilled onto his lap. It was a confession, a suicide note.

He recoiled, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. The world spun. His gut churned with a sickening lurch. His hands shook so violently he could barely hold it.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps. He wanted to scream, to shatter something, to make the terrible reality disappear. He ran his fingers through his hair, wanting to tear it from his scalp.