Gemotions

He slammed the door, the sound echoing through the sterile apartment. His knuckles were white as he clenched his fists. The test results, printed on flimsy paper, were crumpled and discarded on the floor, casualties of his fury. He paced the length of the room, the same path worn into the carpet over the last few hours.

“How?” he finally rasped aloud, his voice rough with disuse. The question hung in the air, unanswered. He glanced at the family photos – posed smiles, manufactured happiness. The faces, once familiar, now felt like strangers.

He reached for the bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cupboard, pouring himself a generous measure. The liquid burned a path down his throat, but did little to soothe the rawness that consumed him. The comfortable, well-ordered world he’d built felt precarious, teetering on the edge of a precipice. The edges of everything were blurred.