Gemotions

David slammed the file closed. The diagnosis was wrong. The medications were wrong. Everything was wrong. He paced his apartment, the worn wooden floors creaking under his restless steps. A cold dread had settled in his gut, a persistent knot that refused to unravel.

He stopped at the window, the city lights a distant, indifferent glow. He felt detached, adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The thought of going to work, of pretending everything was normal, was unbearable.

He grabbed a bottle of scotch from the cabinet. He hadn't touched it in months. His hands trembled as he poured a generous measure, then another. The bitter liquid burned his throat, but the warmth did little to chase away the icy grip of despair.