Gemotions

It was a food blog, the words practically leaping off the screen. "Chef Antoine's Amazing Apple Tart." Her tart. Her grandmother's, her mother's, and now hers. The article was filled with pictures, each image a painful stab to her gut.

She paced her kitchen, the tiles cold beneath her bare feet. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick with a suffocating pressure. She felt a primal urge to destroy something, anything.

She reached for a knife, her hand trembling. She stared at the blade, the polished steel reflecting her distorted image. This was a nightmare. A horrible, relentless nightmare.