Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the hospital room seemed to reflect his own pallor. He stared at the IV drip, the slow, rhythmic pulse of the fluid mirroring the sluggish beat of his own heart. A doctor, a stranger with a practiced smile, entered and switched on the television. A music video began to play. It was "Golden Sun," his composition, performed by a manufactured pop star, a pretty face with a manufactured voice. The music was a sugar-coated version of his anguish. He felt the blood draining from his face, leaving him feeling utterly, irrevocably, empty.