Gemotions

The sunlight streaming through the kitchen window did nothing to lift her spirits. Sarah picked at her toast, the food tasting like ash. The biography, a beautifully bound volume, sat on the counter, mocking her with its carefully crafted narrative. Every detail, every memory, now public property.

She felt a strange disconnect, like watching a movie of her life starring someone else. The person in the book, the "Sarah" they'd created, was a stranger. She resented the author's presumptions, the liberties taken. She wanted to rewrite it, to redact everything.

Pushing away her plate, she walked to the back door, and stood looking out at the untended garden. Her shoulders were hunched, hands were shoved deep in her pockets. The overgrown weeds seemed to reflect her own state.