Gemotions

She sat at her kitchen table, staring at the book. It was a brutal thing, this biography. It presented her life as a series of tragedies, of wrong turns and missed opportunities. She traced the harsh lines of her name on the cover, a bitter taste rising in her throat. Her gaze flicked to her reflection in the darkened window, and she felt a sharp pang of shame.

She felt the need to claw at her own skin, as if she could peel away the false narrative. The silence in her apartment was now a deafening accusation. Each word felt like a personal assault, each page a testament to her perceived failures.

Her usual routine, the comfort of brewing her coffee, felt absurd. She felt an urge to run, to vanish, to hide from the grotesque caricature that had been created in her name.