Gemotions

He slammed the front door, the sound echoing through the empty house. The marketing campaign had blown up in his face, and his boss had made it abundantly clear whose head would be on the chopping block. He yanked open the mailbox, desperate for a reprieve from the crushing pressure.

A single card lay nestled amongst the junk mail. No signature, just a generic "Wishing you the best on your special day." His jaw clenched. He felt the familiar heat rising in his neck, the way his vision would begin to tunnel when things were too much.

He tossed the card onto the counter. He stared at it, hating the forced cheerfulness, the oblivious sentiment. He wanted to scream. He was drowning.