Gemotions

“Happy birthday, old friend,” the card read in a familiar, yet chilling, cursive. Michael felt a coldness wash over him, despite the warmth of the afternoon. He’d tried to forget. He had succeeded, until now.

He crumpled the card in his fist, his knuckles turning white. His throat felt tight. He had to get out of the house, needed space. He grabbed his keys and bolted out the door, the card still in his hand, without even closing the door behind him.

The city sounds, usually a comforting backdrop to his life, now felt loud and threatening. He started walking, not knowing where he was going, only that he had to keep moving.