Gemotions

The apology was a typed document, cold and impersonal, an insult to the deeply personal wound it addressed. Thomas scoffed, crumpling the paper in his hand. He balled it up, squeezing until his knuckles turned white. He considered tossing it into the fireplace, letting the flames consume it.

He sat for a long moment, staring out at the snow-covered landscape. The world was quiet, still. He felt the opposite; a volcano of simmering emotions. The anger, frustration, and betrayal all churned within him, a toxic brew.

He went to the garage and started his old motorcycle, the engine roaring to life, filling the air with the smell of gasoline. He rode for hours, the biting wind whipping against his face, a defiant gesture against the world that had wronged him.