Gemotions

The smell of chalk and the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor brought back a wave of unpleasant sensations for Mark. He tried to hide behind a pillar in the corner of the gymnasium, avoiding Mr. Peterson’s gaze. The man’s booming voice, the same one he had known in third grade, echoed through the vast room. The vivid memory of the dodgeball game when he'd been the last one standing, and then promptly tripped over his own feet, flooded his brain.

He shifted uncomfortably. His son, Ethan, ran over, beaming, after the class.

“Dad, Mr. Peterson said I’m really good at throwing!” Ethan declared proudly. Mark swallowed, unable to meet his son's gaze, as he tried to escape the situation. He felt a blush creep up his neck.

"That's great, buddy," he managed to choke out, attempting a smile that felt crooked.