Gemotions

He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The radio, usually a source of comfort on his commute, was turned off. The news, the news he'd broken, was attributed to someone else. His own. His anger was a molten lump in his stomach. He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, and his vision tunnelled.

The traffic ahead of him seemed to crawl, each red light a fresh insult. He slammed his fist against the dashboard, a sharp, impulsive action. He needed to get away, to find somewhere quiet, a sanctuary, but the thought of going home, facing the silence of the house, terrified him.