Gemotions

The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, each tick a hammer against David’s skull. He stood in his workshop, the scent of sawdust and oil usual comforting aromas, now a source of distress. He stared at the completed model of his invention, feeling a knot constrict his throat.

He knew he should be celebrating, but the news of a prior patent filing had stolen his joy. He examined the device, every cog and lever a reminder of his efforts. Now it felt like a monument to his failure.

His hands shook as he ran a finger along its polished surface. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. He felt the need to destroy it, to break it apart. But the thought, he knew, was an act of despair.

He turned away, unable to look at it any longer. The clock ticked on, marking time, time slipping away, leaving him feeling empty.