Gemotions

The doctor’s office felt sterile, the waiting room humming with a nervous energy that amplified his already frayed nerves. The receptionist called out, "Mr. Davies?" He didn’t correct her; he couldn't. The name on the published piece, the one that should have been his, belonged to another. His article, his voice, now belonging to someone else.

He sat in the examination room, the paper gown crinkling uncomfortably under him. The doctor's questions seemed to bounce off him, unanswered. He didn't want to explain the listlessness that had settled over him, the difficulty he had getting out of bed.

"Is there anything else?" the doctor asked finally. He just shook his head, looking down at his hands, the skin pale and thin. He felt completely depleted.