Gemotions

The muffled bass, a faint tremor in the otherwise still apartment, was the only company Mark had. The pounding on the door was immediate and aggressive. It was Mr. Peterson, his face a storm cloud. "Do you have any idea how late it is?" he barked, his voice tight with anger.

Mark flinched. He hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. He’d been trying to drown out the voice in his head, the one that whispered of failure and inadequacy. Music was the only respite. He opened his mouth, but the apology wouldn't come.

He looked down at his feet, the floorboards cold beneath them. The weight on his shoulders felt heavier than usual. Mr. Peterson's gaze was a physical pressure, driving the message home. He hated everything and everyone around him.