Gemotions

He slammed the phone down, the receiver practically cracking against the table. *Mark Peterson*. The name, spoken by his friend with genuine concern, had filled him with a potent, visceral aversion. He remembered the broken bikes, the stolen lunches, the unending reign of terror on the playground.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. He needed help. He knew he needed it. But to confide in *him*?

He grabbed his coat, then threw it down again. The thought of it made him feel sick. He would just have to deal with it himself. He went to the kitchen and grabbed a beer.