Gemotions

The shadows in his apartment seemed to lengthen, to shift and coalesce. He had always admired Alistair Finch. Now, the man’s words, once a source of comfort, felt like poison. He tossed the book across the room, it clattering against the wall. He couldn't trust it. He couldn’t trust Finch.

He re-read the email from the literary agent, the accusation, the links. He rubbed his temples, trying to ward off a headache. The world tilted slightly. He found himself checking the locks on his doors repeatedly. The air in his apartment felt thick, suffocating. He pulled the curtains shut, plunging the room into near darkness.

He felt a deep unease, an almost physical pressure, that coiled in his stomach, as if something terrible was about to happen. He felt the impulse to run, to flee.