Gemotions

The crisp white cover of the book felt slick beneath her trembling fingers. “The Life and Times of Evelyn Reed,” it proclaimed in bold, gold lettering. She’d never authorized this. Never spoken to a biographer. Heat prickled under her skin, a relentless summer rash. She slammed the book onto the kitchen counter, the ceramic mug of lukewarm coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

Her jaw clenched. The audacity. She stalked to the window, peering out at the manicured lawn she’d spent years perfecting. The green, once a source of pride, now felt mocking. She wished she could yank up every blade of grass, just to have *something* to attack.

The phone rang, its shrill noise slicing through the suffocating silence. It was her neighbor, Mrs. Gable, gushing about how much she was enjoying the book. Evelyn hung up without a word, the sound of Mrs. Gable’s voice echoing in her ears like nails on a chalkboard. She grabbed the book again, ripped off the dust jacket, and began methodically tearing pages from the binding, letting the shredded paper drift to the floor.