Gemotions

The flickering fluorescent lights of the waiting room were a personal hell. Each pulse seemed to mirror the frantic thump in his chest. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, a familiar habit resurfacing with unsettling force. The chipped, plastic chair dug into his back, a further irritant he couldn't afford to acknowledge. He kept running through the events of the week, trying to find a fault line, a crack he could blame.

He flipped through a magazine, the glossy pages offering no solace. Pictures of perfect families and carefree vacations mocked his current state. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. He wondered if this was the right decision.

“Mr. Henderson?” The receptionist’s voice sliced through the tension. He stood, his legs feeling like lead, and followed her down the hall, his stomach clenching. He knew.

He stared at the nameplate: “Mark Thompson, LCSW.” His former tormentor. He swallowed hard and knocked.