Gemotions

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until his scalp prickled. The news, a relentless wave of betrayal, crashed over him. His idol, Arthur Finch, the man whose prose had inspired him to chase his own literary dreams, was a fraud. A thief. He sat heavily on his sofa, the cushions doing little to cushion the impact.

His jaw clenched. He’d devoured every book Finch had written, absorbing his style, his voice. He’d even framed a signed first edition. The thought of that framed book, now a symbol of deceit, made him want to smash something.

His leg bounced erratically. He forced himself to his feet, unable to stay still. The apartment was a cage. He started snapping at his roommate, who had just asked a simple question, voice sharp and clipped. He regretted it immediately, the guilt adding to the simmering rage. He couldn't trust anything anymore.