Gemotions

"Just breathe," Mark muttered to himself, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He sat stiffly at the kitchen table, the envelope, still sealed, a glaring white beacon against the dark wood. He hadn’t been able to eat, and his stomach felt like it was tied in knots.

He was sweating, a light sheen across his forehead. His fingers fidgeted, picking at the edge of the paper. He glanced at the clock, the slow tick of the second hand magnifying the silence. He'd been anticipating this, and dreading it in equal measure.

He pictured his father, the one who had sent the letter. The one he’d spent the last twenty years actively avoiding. He gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white. Everything felt like a threat.