Gemotions

John stared at the manuscript. Each sentence a fresh jab, each word a betrayal. His stomach churned, a cold fist clenching and releasing. This was *him*, in the pages of this… thing. But… wrong. Distorted. A caricature.

He felt the sudden need to move, to break something. He paced the small living room, the worn rug a familiar comfort under his feet. He picked up a framed photo of them from the side table, their faces smiling, blissfully unaware of the fiction brewing just a few feet away. He almost threw it.

He sat back down, a tremor running through his body. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at the window, the overcast sky pressing down on him. A wave of nausea surged. He had to know if the ending was good.