Gemotions

A tremor ran through David’s hands as he held the magazine. His words, his analysis, his very *soul* poured into the essay, now bearing the name “Harold Finch.” He crumpled the magazine in his grip, the paper crinkling like the sound of bones breaking. He needed air, desperately.

He shoved open the office door, startling his intern, who jumped. “Get out,” he barked, his voice rough and unfamiliar. He had to be alone. He walked over to the window and stared at the bustling city below, his vision blurred.

The weight in his chest was crushing. He saw Finch’s smug face at the recent conference. The man had even congratulated him on "the fantastic work." He should have known. David began to clench his fists. The impulse to shatter something, anything, consumed him.