Gemotions

The flickering gaslight cast elongated shadows across the cobbled alleyway. Arthur clutched the anonymous letter tighter, the paper crinkling in his sweaty palm. A knot formed in his stomach. He’d recognized the style, the florid prose, instantly. His life, dissected and displayed for the public's amusement. He glanced back, a shiver running down his spine. He felt like he was being watched.

His hand trembled as he ripped the letter in half. He needed a drink, a stiff one. He quickened his pace, the rhythmic tap of his cane against the stones the only sound besides the distant rumble of the city. He kept glancing over his shoulder. Each shadow seemed to lengthen, to twist, to become a lurking figure, ready to pounce.

The pub door beckoned. Inside, the boisterous laughter and the clinking of glasses provided a momentary distraction. But even as he downed the whiskey, the words from the biography echoed in his mind, the careful selection of details, the calculated exposure. He was being dissected. His breath hitched in his chest.