Gemotions

He stared at the professor’s office door, the brass nameplate blurring slightly through a sudden film forming over his eyes. His throat felt tight, constricted. A dull ache throbbed in his temples, mirroring the insistent pounding of his heart. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging strands, as if trying to physically dislodge the feeling of dread that had taken root within.

His palms were slick. He could feel the clammy dampness on the worn leather of his backpack straps. The polished wood of the door seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, a silent promise of what awaited him inside. He took a shaky breath, trying to calm the sudden, urgent need to bolt.

“Mr. Davis?” a voice called from inside. He forced himself to move, his legs feeling heavy, leaden. He pushed open the door, the hinges protesting with a loud groan, and stepped into the room.