Gemotions

The waiting room seemed to tilt. Walls were shifting, the muted floral wallpaper swimming before her eyes. She gripped the worn, faux-leather armrest, knuckles white, forcing herself to breathe. This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not now. The receptionist's voice, chirping a cheerful, "Dr. Harding will see you now," sliced through her thoughts like a rusty blade.

She stood slowly, legs feeling like jelly. The door to the office loomed. A deep breath. A hesitant knock.

The figure behind the desk, framed in the soft afternoon light, was familiar, yet impossibly alien. Mark Harding, the bane of her existence in elementary school, now a doctor. A therapist. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach.

“Come in, Sarah,” he said, voice smooth and practiced. It was a complete betrayal of the rough, taunting drawl she remembered.