Gemotions

The park bench felt cold and unforgiving beneath Eleanor. She was sat alone, watching the children play. The sky was an overcast gray, matching her mood perfectly. Just yesterday, she'd discovered a stack of papers tucked away in the back of the closet, a completed manuscript.

It was a fictionalized account of their relationship, penned by her husband, John. A narrative of a woman obsessed with control, a caricature of his complaints about her.

She traced a circle on her knee, feeling a deep, persistent ache in her bones. The laughter of the children seemed miles away, barely audible above the ringing in her ears. She felt her face burn.