Gemotions

He hated hospitals. The clinical white walls, the incessant beeping of machines, the way everyone seemed to float in a sea of unspoken anxieties. Michael felt a churning in his stomach. He’d barely touched his breakfast, and now, waiting for his name to be called, he felt a creeping, icy dread crawl over him. He watched the man across from him, who kept running a hand through his already disheveled hair, and wanted to be anywhere else.

“Is that… is that a rash?” the other man asked, his voice strained. He pointed at Michael's arm, where a faint crimson patch had blossomed. Michael flinched, pulling the sleeve of his shirt down further. He wanted to scream.