Gemotions

The waiting room smelled of antiseptic and something faintly floral. Amelia clutched the worn strap of her purse, her knuckles white. She’d been coming to therapy for six months, making slow, painful progress. Now this. The receptionist had said her new therapist was running a bit late, which was already making her stomach churn. Then, the door opened. And there, framed in the doorway, was Mark. Mark, who used to tie her shoelaces together and call her “Amelia the Amoeba.”

Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t speak. Mark. Here?

He smiled, a practiced, professional thing, and gestured her inside. “Amelia? Please, come in. I’m Mark. I’m glad we're finally meeting face-to-face.” He looked the same, somehow. Taller, perhaps. But the same cruel glint in his eyes.

Amelia managed a tight, almost imperceptible nod and moved into the room.