Gemotions

The campus security office was sterile, smelling faintly of disinfectant. Mark sat on a plastic chair, legs crossed, trying to project an air of nonchalance he didn’t feel. The investigator’s questions, however, were like a barrage of small, sharp needles, pricking at his carefully constructed facade of indifference.

His answers came out in hesitant, broken phrases. He kept rubbing his palms on his jeans, as if trying to wipe away the growing sense of desperation. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like a hunted animal.

The investigator leaned forward, his gaze intense. Mark flinched, the sound of his own breathing seeming deafening in the silence. He wished he could just vanish, evaporate into thin air. He gripped the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white.