Gemotions

The room reeked of stale perfume and forced camaraderie. She hated the forced gaiety, the saccharine sweetness. She observed the clinking glasses and the overly enthusiastic handshakes, as though she were a scientist observing a particularly distasteful specimen. Her father, the object of this affection, beamed at his colleagues. She remembered the late nights, the forgotten birthdays.

She picked at the corner of the buffet, avoiding eye contact with the well-wishers. The feeling was a sharp, cold knot in her chest. She hated this forced affection. It was such a betrayal of everything.

When her name was called, she walked to the podium with deliberate slowness. “Well,” she said, her voice devoid of warmth, “I guess congratulations are in order. On escaping.” She offered the briefest of smiles, a fleeting thing that vanished before anyone could quite catch it.