Gemotions

The surgeon’s office was sterile and cold. The medical charts on the desk seemed to mock him with their precise, clinical language. He kept his gaze fixed on the floral wallpaper, counting the tiny, repetitive blooms. Each time the doctor spoke, his voice sounded amplified in the silence.

He gripped the edge of the chair, his knuckles white. The doctor was explaining the rarity of his condition, the challenges of its management.

Then, there was a knock on the door. A nurse entered, followed by another patient. Their eyes met, and he felt a jolt of something akin to panic. The other man held out his hand, palm up. He, too, had the markings.