Gemotions

Rain lashed against the window of the dreary apartment, mirroring the storm brewing inside Mark. He'd purchased the worn copy of *Moby Dick* as a prop for his new, failing, play. The apartment, his life, everything felt suffocating, cramped by the constant feeling of being overlooked.

The letter, tucked between pages marked with faded pencil, was a hastily scrawled note, a teenager’s clumsy confession of love. He didn't read it. He knew it wouldn’t contain any profound wisdom, any profound truth that would fill the empty ache inside. He flipped the page, then another, then another.

He glanced at the letter, then at the chipped mug of lukewarm coffee on his table. His own words, the carefully crafted prose he'd poured weeks into, felt hollow, unappreciated. He wanted to scream. Instead, he slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the empty space. He rose from his chair and paced the room, the anger swelling within him. He felt like the whale, harpooned, bleeding, and doomed to be forever pursued.