Gemotions

The phone call came in the middle of a particularly dreary Tuesday. “Mr. Peterson, we have some… conflicting information regarding your medical history.” The voice was hesitant, professional. The records showed that Mr. Peterson had been diagnosed with an advanced state of dementia. He felt his hands begin to sweat, his heart thrum against his ribs.

He hung up, the words still echoing in his ears. He started to laugh, a low chuckle that grew into a full, throaty roar. The gray walls of his apartment seemed to recede, as if the very air was expanding around him. He felt an undeniable urge to do something reckless, something wild. He glanced at his car keys, and a grin spread across his face.