Gemotions

"Oh, crap," muttered Jackson, his voice a gravelly whisper. The invitation lay on his desk, a small, unassuming square, but it might as well have been a nuclear weapon. He felt a sudden, urgent need to flee.

He jumped up and started to pace his tiny apartment, which suddenly felt claustrophobic. The memory of the high school years - the constant feeling of not belonging - washed over him with renewed intensity.

His hands fidgeted, tracing the outline of his tattoo. He needed to be anywhere but there. The thought of that night, of the scrutiny, the pressure to perform, was crippling. He reached for the bottle of whiskey, a familiar comfort he knew he probably should avoid.