Gemotions

He paced the length of his cramped apartment, each footfall a heavy thud against the worn floorboards. Michael ran a hand through his hair, the strands catching in his tightened fist. The rejection sat open on his desk, a stark, unwelcome presence in the dim room.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner, each tick a hammer blow. He stopped, staring at the clock, willing it to stop, to cease its maddening beat.

"It's just… it's not good enough," he muttered, the words catching in his throat. He felt a prickly heat rise up his neck, a flush of frustration and humiliation. He needed to get out, away from the confinement of his own thoughts.