Gemotions

He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles bone-white. The road ahead blurred as Mark continued to insist that *he* was the one who had driven them home that night. A cold sweat erupted on his brow. The details were seared into his memory: the winding country lanes, the blinding rain, the feeling of absolute terror as the car skidded. It was a nightmare he would never forget, and the accusation was like a fresh wound. The muscles in his neck were rigid, aching with tension. He wanted to shout, to shake Mark until he admitted the truth, but he could barely breathe, let alone formulate a coherent sentence.