Gemotions

The email notification pinged, a jarring sound in the quiet apartment. "The Greasy Spoon's Last Supper," it read. He felt a jolt, a physical blow to his solar plexus. He spun around, as though expecting someone to have walked in. His pulse hammered.

He shut all the windows, convinced a spy drone would enter. He had to be safe. He went to his kitchen and took out the can opener, making sure to close his eyes and open his mouth every time he was about to use it. When he opened his eyes again, he found the image of the can opener reflected in the silver foil on the side of the can he was opening.

He checked the locks on his front door three times. He felt a prickling sensation on his skin, a sense of being watched. He checked under his bed, behind the curtains, in the closet. Each shadow became a potential threat. He turned the television on, flipping through channels, searching for some sign, some clue, that would explain this attack on his well-being.

He didn't eat. He couldn't eat. The thought of consuming something prepared in a restaurant, a place he now saw as a viper's nest, repulsed him.