Gemotions

The book arrived, a sleek, black tome with her name embossed on the cover. Inside, a life dissected, laid bare. It wasn't the facts – the dates, the places – that chilled her. It was the *tone*. Intimate. Presumptuous. As if the writer, a stranger, had somehow inhabited her thoughts, her very soul.

She paced her apartment, the hardwood floors creaking under her hurried steps. Her fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against her thigh. A cold dread settled in her stomach, making her want to push away from herself. She’d always guarded her privacy fiercely. Now, it was…gone. She ran a hand through her hair, tugging at the strands.

The author had somehow known about the recurring dream, the one she’d never told anyone. It was in the book, detailed, dissected. She felt a need to scream, to lash out, to rend the thing to shreds. Instead, she sat, paralyzed, staring at the offending words.