Gemotions

"Unbelievable," Michael muttered, the word a rasp in his throat. He crushed the letter in his hand, then immediately regretted it. He smoothed the paper again. The words, so carefully chosen, now seemed to mock him. He balled his fist and slammed it against his desk.

His pulse hammered in his temples. He felt a sharp, almost physical pain in his chest, a reawakening of the agony he had painstakingly suppressed for decades. He threw the letter into the waste basket, then immediately retrieved it.

He wanted to scream, to shatter something. He paced his office, the worn Persian rug beneath his feet doing little to soothe his agitation. The walls seemed to close in on him. He felt suffocated by the very air he breathed.