Gemotions

“I thought it was junk mail,” David said, his voice unusually high-pitched. He held the letter up to the light, turning it over in his hands. It was written in a familiar, yet unfamiliar handwriting. The memory of the past took over his body.

He sat, numb, on the edge of his bed. The letter contained the usual platitudes, the familiar attempts at remorse, yet the carefully constructed phrases felt inadequate, empty. He felt as if someone had just thrown a bucket of ice water over him. He felt disconnected from everything, his own existence.

He balled his hands into fists. He wanted to tear it up, to obliterate the words, to erase the past, but he couldn't. He slowly, deliberately, placed the letter on the bedside table and then lay down, staring at the ceiling.