Gemotions

The coffee tasted like ash, mirroring the taste in his mouth. He’d barely touched his breakfast, the eggs and bacon sitting congealing on the plate. He felt restless, a captive in his own apartment. The news on the television, the chirping of the birds outside, even the sunlight streaming in the window - all things that should have soothed him, instead grated on his nerves.

He paced the length of the living room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Mark. The name, a rusty nail in his memory, surfaced from the depths of his past, a constant irritation. How could a bully become a therapist? It seemed an obscene joke of the universe. He'd never expected to see him again.

He took a deep breath, trying to dispel the heavy air. He'd find another therapist, anyone else. He had to. He would not be subjected to the casual cruelty that had once governed his every move.