Gemotions

He avoided eye contact with the bartender, nursing a whiskey neat. The amber liquid did little to soothe the knot in his stomach. The book, a slim volume detailing his life, sat unopened in his satchel, a constant weight. He'd seen it in the bookstore window, a grotesque caricature of his existence.

He considered leaving, just disappearing. To start over, a blank slate, but the feeling of being trapped, defined, held him rooted to the barstool. He watched the other patrons, their laughter and chatter a distant, irritating noise. Why was everyone so carefree? Didn't they understand?

He slammed his glass on the counter. "Another," he muttered, his voice gravelly. The world was a canvas, and someone had painted his story without his permission. He felt reduced, violated, a passive observer in his own life.