Gemotions

The doctor's waiting room felt stifling. Sweat beaded on Mark's forehead. His breathing was shallow and rapid. He stared at the book in his hands, each page a fresh outrage. The author, a supposed friend, had woven a narrative of his life, sanitizing his struggles, exploiting his vulnerabilities.

He wanted to throw up. He wanted to scream. The air felt thick, heavy, unbreathable. He stood up abruptly, knocking over a magazine rack. The waiting patients watched him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

"I need some air," he choked out, his voice a strained whisper. He pushed past them, needing to escape the suffocating confines.