Gemotions

The envelope, addressed to "Mr. Arthur Finch," sat on the kitchen counter like a ticking time bomb. Arthur's gaze darted around the room, as if the walls might offer some insight. He picked it up, then put it down, the action repeated several times.

He'd built a life, a quiet life, far removed from the clamor of his high school years. He preferred his routine, his solitude, his carefully constructed peace. This invitation threatened to shatter it.

He thought of the people he knew, the friends and enemies, the popular and unpopular. The thought sent a chill through him, a feeling like a ghost tapping at the back of his mind. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, a small dose of defiance.