Gemotions

He sat in the waiting room, the cheap magazines spread on the table. He flipped through one, then another, each page a fresh insult. He was not the sort of man who waited. He was the sort of man who made things happen.

When they finally called his name, he almost didn’t respond. He had to force himself to move, the sound of his shoes on the linoleum floor echoing his inner turmoil.

The nurse, a pleasant enough woman, handed him the file. His own file. It wasn't his. It couldn't be. The details were alien, a mockery of everything he believed about his health. He felt a sharp jab of something, deep within his chest, like a cold, hard stone.