Gemotions

He slammed the back of his car door, the noise echoing through the quiet street. The book, the source of his current turmoil, lay on the passenger seat, the cover taunting him with the photograph of his smiling face. He’d driven for miles, seeking some kind of respite, but the internal storm persisted.

He felt a sudden urge to burn the thing, to turn its pages to ash. The air tasted stale, and his chest felt tight. He had to be still. He had to think. But the anger, a simmering heat, was too close to the surface. It was all too wrong.

He pounded the steering wheel, his knuckles cracking, the sound muffled in the vehicle. The violation was a raw wound, and the book was the salt.